


A Period of Adjustment

by WolfenM



Series: Trying to Be Nicer [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Redemption, The Incident, Unrequited Love, mention of suicide, mention of teen prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfenM/pseuds/WolfenM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season 3 finale, but before the Christmas Special.</p><p>After The Incident, Thomas knows he cannot resume his life exactly as it was -- those who ignore the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them. Thankfully, traumas have a tendency to get people to reevaluate their lives and want to be better. But <i>how</i> does one change -- and <i>can</i> one change if someone won't give them a chance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mottos and Commandments

**Author's Note:**

> This series is a sequel of sorts to my fic "[Sybil the First, Sybil the Second](http://archiveofourown.org/works/771174)", but you don't *need* to read that one to read this. This *particular* fic is not Thommy -- in fact, Jimmy will display a fair bit of animosity towards Thomas, since it takes place before the X-Mas Special -- and I honestly haven't decided if the fic *series* ever will be, but they will at least be good friends in the *next* fic. 
> 
> For now, my focus is on Thomas coming to terms with who he was and who he *wants* to be.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.
> 
> ###########  
> If you've enjoyed my writing, I invite you to explore my original fantasy storyverse, [Gaiankind](http://gaiankind.com)! You can even find Gaiankind stories for free [here](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Gaiankind) on AO3!

"A Barrow always pays his debts," Thomas said to himself as he adjusted his tie in his mirror, remembering the family motto his father had repeated so often while Thomas was growing up. "Your problem, my lad, is that you reinterpreted that as payback of the revenge variety. And where did that get you? Miserable, that's what. But you've got a second chance now -- don't waste it. You've got a better placement -- even if you're still not entirely sure what under-butler does." He wasn't sure Carson knew, either. "And your superiors know what you are, yet so far aren't sacking you -- keep being the bastard you've always been, and they just might change their minds! But how _does_ one go about repaying a kindness?" he wondered aloud.

He began to comb pomade through his hair. "Well, I suppose the advice Mr Bates gave about being _nicer_ would be a start. Seems to work all right for him and his missus. Not to mention that you rank higher than Bates now, and he helped get you there, so for once you've got no reason to be a bastard to him, and every reason not to." He pursed his lips. "But you're not too good at being nice, are you? Even when you manage to say kind words, there's a usually sneer behind them, isn't there? So maybe just keep your head down and your mouth shut unless asked a direct question. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say it. Make _that_ your motto. Or better, a _commandment_. Yeah, that may be the way to go about it -- sounds more serious, like there's punishment involved. Your First Commandment: 'If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all.'"

He checked the clock and saw that he still had some time left before he was expected downstairs; nervousness over what the new day would bring had left him unable to sleep. Before the cricket match, and for a little while after, Carson had been training him on things like the expenses ledger and writing a schedule and determining what would be required for different events. This was to be his first _real_ day in his new position, his first day giving commands. Once, he would have relished the idea -- he _had_ , when he was Downton's House Manager. But in light of his "indiscretion", what if no one listened to him or took him seriously? Sure, there were plenty of people who didn't know exactly what happened -- Ivy, Daisy -- but they at least knew he was almost sent packing without a reference. They knew he had done _something_ serious, even if he had been forgiven.

While few on the staff really _liked_ Carson, they respected him. Thomas, on the other hand, had done a fair job of making enemies _and_ losing people's respect, _especially_ when he'd been the House Manager. "Well, you were supposed to be their _ally_ against Mrs Crawley, maybe even against Dr Clarkson, but you did nothing to _help_ them, did you?" Dr Clarkson had even reprimanded him for being rude to Daisy and bossing her about. At the time, Thomas had been irritated that he'd been snitched on, but hadn't he once told O'Brien that she'd brought her troubles on herself? Hadn't he done the same, time and time again? If he hadn't been overly bossy to Daisy -- and facing facts, he'd done it primarily _because_ he had the power and wanted to enjoy it -- there would have been nothing for Daisy, and subsequently Clarkson, to complain about.

"Right. Commandment Number Two: 'Don't overstep or abuse your position.' Don't give anyone a reason to complain to Carson again -- or worse, his Lordship." If he hadn't kissed Jimmy without the lad's consent, Jimmy wouldn't have had anything to say that would have threatened Thomas with homelessness and prison.

"Commandment Three: 'Remember that you don't have to _like_ someone to be _courteous_ to them.' You don't even have to believe they deserve it. Be like Mrs Hughes more than Carson -- patient and understanding even when others don't live up to your expectations. Treat others well and, again, they won't have anything to hold against you later." Unless maybe they were O'Brien, who was willing and able to make something up -- just as _he_ had, if he were being honest, and he was _trying_ to be ....

"And Four ...? 'Do unto others as they do unto you?' No, that's how you've been living already, isn't it? It's 'Do unto others as you would _have_ them do unto you' ....

"And with that in mind, Commandment Five: 'When you get angry, _don't_ get even.' Let them get themselves into trouble. If they really did wrong, then like as not, they'll catch it -- _you_ did often enough. If it gets bad, bring it to Carson and let him handle it, or Mrs Hughes -- it's part of their jobs. Otherwise, don't let anyone bait you.

"On that note, Commandment Six: 'Stop being paranoid.' If everyone was out to get you, you wouldn't still be here." He thought of Mrs Hughes, after she found him crying in the rain, taking him to her sitting room, giving him tea, and insisting that he tell her what happened. Then he thought of all the times that Daisy had asked him about this or that and he'd snapped at her to mind her own business. "Sometimes people ask questions because they care, not because they're filing it away for later to hurt you with." _Not everyone is like you._

"Number Seven, 'Always be grateful.' The best way of repaying those kindnesses is to never forget them."

Looking at his clock again, and finding only a minute or two had passed, he decided he might as well just go down already. Straightening his jacket one last time, he told himself, "Commandment Eight: Don't lie, scheme, steal, cheat, or keep secrets. Besides the fact that your employer deserves better from you, you always screw things up somehow, don't you? If you want friends, you need to be as open and honest as you can -- friends share things and trust each other. You have a lot to do to earn people's trust at this point.

"And Commandment Nine: 'Remember your history or you'll be doomed to repeat it -- again and again.' Learn from your mistakes."

He couldn't think of a tenth, but it was a start.

~ * * * ~  
When Thomas reached the hall and saw Jimmy sitting at the table, a Tenth Commandment came to him: _"Be celibate."_


	2. Apologies and Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has some apologies to make and gratitude to show -- but it may be too late for some ....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

Finishing his tea, John was about to leave the now-empty servant's hall to gather some of Lord Grantham's things to mend, when Thomas stepped in front of him in the doorway. John bristled for a moment out of reflex, but the tension drained away almost instantly when he saw the look of trepidation on the younger man's face.

"D-do you have a moment, Mr Bates?" Thomas asked hesitantly, head bowed and eyes averted.

John was surprised to find that seeing Thomas being so cowed was unnerving, almost as bad as when he'd found the man in his room, completely broken and hopeless. Thomas had and even better job now, better than John himself had, with Grantham in his corner -- he would have thought Thomas would be strutting around like a rooster ....

"Sure," John said, curious but still wary. Perhaps this was some sort of ruse ....

"Ah ... let's sit, shall we?" Thomas asked, gesturing to the table in the servant's hall.

Once they were seated, it took Thomas a few moments to get going, with John getting increasingly unsettled. Thomas kept his eyes on the table as he spoke.

"I ... I-I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for helping me and ... I'm sorry for all the grief I've caused you in the past. I know there's been a lot of it, a-and sorry doesn't even begin to make up for it, but ... well, I hope you'll give me a chance to do as much as I _can_ ," Thomas rambled, like a dam had broken within him and the words were just tumbling out, his normally posh accent slurring more towards middle-class Manchester with the speed.

John, feeling really awkward and wondering if he was in some strange dream, was going to tell Thomas not to worry about it, both because he still didn't trust Thomas (though he wouldn't have said _that_ ) and because he'd rather leave the past in the past. Unfortunately, the other man's stream of words didn't seem ready to stop flowing, and Bates was too intrigued to interrupt him.

"I know that ... _technically_ I rank above you now," Thomas went on, "but I want you to know that _I_ don't see it that way -- as far as I'm concerned, unless a particular circumstance requires me to give directions to you, we're equals. I don't even really understand _why_ His Lordship offered me this job, but ... well, I didn't want to _leave_ ... I mean, for better or worse, Downton is my _home_ ... so I took it. A-and I understand now that you never meant me any ill will when you took the valet job -- _either_ time. I realise that I _shouldn't_ have been surprised when you helped me -- you could have gotten me over the snuff box a long time ago, after all, but you didn't. You could have snitched on me about the wine, but you didn't. You were never out to get me, like I told myself you were. I brought all that trouble on myself."

John just stared at the under-butler. John's mother had often spoken of changelings, faer folk that were swapped for children stolen from cradles. Did they come for adults, too?

Thomas finally looked up at him, and gave him a wan smile. "I said prison changed you, but I'm not so sure now -- you probably didn't _need_ to improve. I think ... I think I kept mistaking you for myself." He looked at the table again. "And I can tell you, the _threat_ of prison -- or homelessness -- has ... encouraged _me_ to reevaluate a few things about my life. It occurs to me that, unless I want to be thrown out like I nearly have been even _before_ this latest ... _incident_ , I need to change my ways. And I think a good place to start is with what _you_ said about being nicer -- I think I'd fare better listening to you that I ever did with O'Brien. I need to choose my friends better -- a-and _treat_ them better when I _have_ them."

Thomas looked up, then quickly looked to the side, seeming embarrassed. "Not that I'm expecting _us_ to be friends, mind, after all I did. I just ... well, I thought you might be upset about how things worked out, what with me being promoted, and I wanted you to know that I'm going to do my best to make sure you at least don't regret helping me."

"Ah, Mr Barrow," came Carson's voice from the doorway just then. "Come to my office, will you, and we can work on dinner plans for the week."

"Yes, Mr Carson," Thomas said contritely, rising to his feet.

"Thomas," John said as the other man moved to leave.

Thomas looked at him expectantly, with a mix of worry and hope. John saw it as a good sign that Thomas didn't correct him by insisting he be called Mr Barrow (although John supposed he would have to get used to using it, or get an earful from Carson).

"Prison _did_ change me -- the _first_ time I went," John revealed. "You keep up this new attitude towards life, and prove you've _really_ put your anger and vindictiveness behind you -- as I myself had to do," he interjected with rue, "-- and I don't doubt you'll find yourself with more friends than you know what to do with. _Including_ me."

The look of gratitude and relief Thomas now wore was so unfamiliar, it was like looking at another person entirely. "Thank you, Mr Bates." And with a nod of his head, the under-butler hurried off.

"I just hope this new Thomas sticks around," Bates said to himself, chuckling as he rose to his feet. "Wait till Anna hears ...."

~ * * * ~  
Thomas spent some of his next half-day visiting Sybil's grave -- his first time doing so since the funeral. Granted, the old Thomas wasn't much for visiting gravesides, but besides his newfound sense of obligation, he found he _wanted_ to go. Part of him thought it was a ridiculous idea, but the other part of him missed her, and thought maybe he could be closer to her there, that she would appreciate his visit -- and that part of him really didn't care how ludicrous the other part thought it.

So he brought flowers and a blanket to sit on, and spent an hour or talking to her headstone as if it were her (and not as if her body were actually ten feet below him). First, he told her about how baby Sybbie was doing, and her Tom, and then her family. Then he shared some light gossip he'd heard about various aristo families. He moved on to anecdotes about and the health of the staff. Finally, confirming that no one else was near enough to her him, he quietly told her about his recent promotion -- and the ordeal that led to it, including his ill-treatment of Bates in days past and how the man had helped him anyway. He wanted her to know all of him, his bad side as well as his good, and confirm or deny any ideas she'd had about him while she was alive. He just wished he could have done this while she _was_ alive.

By the time he was done, tears were a steady rain on his face. "I'm sure the subject of whom I am attracted to doesn't disgust you, but I fear some _other_ things I've done would, and I'm so, so sorry for that," he told her earnestly. "You were a good friend -- far better than I deserved. Should I even come back here? I feel like I ought to, and I _want_ to, but ... after all that's happened, I don't want to impose my company on anyone ever again. You deserve to be at peace here. But while I think it would kill me to hear that you hated me after all I did, I still wish I _knew_ \-- 'cause you'd be alive to tell me."

The wind picked up just then, and something brushed his cheek softly before falling into his lap. It was a blossom, not from a grave but as what might fall from a flowering tree -- even though no trees were in bloom.

He smiled softly. "Thank you." He got to his feet and gathered up the blanket, then tipped his hat to the headstone. "I'll see you soon. Meanwhile, you say hello to Edward for me, 'ey?" Because Thomas didn't believe for an instant that a soul as beautiful as Edward's would be eternally tormented in Hell for being driven to end his torment on Earth. 

As Thomas began the walk back to the entry gate, another blossom blew past him. His eyes followed it as it tumbled towards the cemetery that the simple white crosses. It came to rest at the foot of one, and Thomas followed.

He wasn't surprised when the name on the cross turned out to be William Mason.

"'Allo, old son," he greeted William, laying the blanket down and settling upon it. I'm sorry I haven't been by. I'm sorry about a _lot_ of things, really. I could have stood to be a lot kinder to you. I know, too little, too late. I can't fix how I was; all I can do is promise I'll try to be better, for whatever that's worth -- it's all I've got.

"If it's any comfort at all, I'll look out for Daisy for you. Not as in me trying to take your pace, mind!" he added hurriedly. "I don't know if you knew, but ...." He looked around. "Well, frankly, _you_ were more my type. I'm sorry I got in your way with Daisy. I know first-hand how hard it is to see someone you're attracted to fawn over someone else. Not that I was greatly smitten with you -- no offence -- but I was still jealous. It wasn't even really a matter of you being attracted to her and not me, but the fact that that's pretty much how it _always_ goes for me -- and for the fact that, if she loved you back, you could be married and lived happily ever after, and everyone would be so happy for you. I hated you for it, for something that was as out of your hands as how society loathes my kind. It wasn't fair of me."

Thomas thought for a moment that it had started to drizzle, until he tasted salt.

"And it wasn't just that," he went on, ignoring his tears since there was no one but maybe ghosts to see them. "I hated you because everyone loved you and no one loved me -- and it never occurred to me that they didn't love me because I didn't give them much reason to. I hated you for having a mother and father that loved you, and for the fact that you never were and never would have been a disappointment to them. None of that was fair of me. Not to mention I think I would have been a lot less miserable with you as my friend." That they hadn't been was, Thomas realised now, yet another example of how Thomas was and always had been his own worst enemy.

Another blossom fell, landing on the back of his half-covered hand. Thomas smiled wistfully. "Is this your way of telling me you _were_ my friend? Or just wishful thinking on my part?" He laid the bloom at the foot of the grave marker. As he did, a fat drop of rain fell on his bad hand, even though the sky didn't look like rain at all. 

"I'm not ashamed of this," he remarked, watching the water spread along the leather. "I'm not sorry I did it. There's only so much terror one can take, and two years at the front was the worst hell of my life. But I know everyone would have preferred it was me who'd died instead of you, and as much as I wanted to live -- still do -- I'm not sure I've lived up to the extra time I've been granted so far. Even so, I don't think I would have the guts to trade places with you now, if I could. I'm not selfless enough -- Matthew Crawley was lucky it was you he had with him rather than me. But I'm _trying_ now, and maybe one day people _will_ think me as worthy of my life as you were of yours." He rose to his feet, brushing his clothes off and restoring his hat to his head. "I suppose I won't have to fear the fires of hell so much then, because they'll be frozen over, eh?" he chuckled. "I'll see you, mate," he added, tipping his hat. _Maybe I'll bring Daisy next time,_ he thought to himself as he began walking home.


	3. Confessions of Loves Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation about love lives leads to Thomas revealing some unexpected things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

"Oh come on, we told you ours!" Ivy pestered Thomas late one evening, as she and Daisy were setting the table for the servants' dinner.

"I didn't _ask_ you to, and besides which, I wasn't listening," Thomas pointed out absently as he pretended to peruse the evening paper, wishing -- in a rare moment -- that Carson would come into the hall. That would put an end to the discussion for sure.

"Well, I bet he's never had even _one_ , then," Ivy proclaimed to Daisy.

 _Don't take the bait_ , Thomas warned himself. "Think what you like," he told her placidly.

"Never had one of what?" Alfred asked as he and Jimmy sat down.

"A sweetheart," Ivy replied. "We've told ours -- that is, Daniel, and Jenna, and Daisy and me, but Mr Barrow won't say, so _I_ say he must never have had one!"

Thomas didn't need to look to know Jimmy and Alfred wished as much as Thomas did for Carson to appear just then. The last thing anyone in the know wanted was a reminder of "The Incident".

"Ivy!" Anna cried, aghast as she walked into the hall with her husband. "What would Mr Carson say if he heard you talking like that!"

"Besides, even if he did have any sweethearts, some of us would rather keep our appetites, and hearing of the conquests of Mr Barrow would surely make us lose them," Jimmy grumbled, looking disgusted.

Thomas felt his heart clench painfully at Jimmy's words -- they hurt, but part of that was because he knew Jimmy was right. While Thomas wasn't ashamed, he knew all too well that no one in the room would want to hear about a love-life that involved men loving men.

The memory of Carson calling him foul over his inclinations reared its head.

It was that memory that made Thomas suddenly reconsider his position. The sex of his lovers was what, more than anything, made his love life different from most others. If he left that out of his stories, this might otherwise be a prime opportunity to demonstrate that fact to those who knew his inclinations -- as well as that he wasn't a heartless bastard. Not to mention that if he wanted friends, willingly making himself vulnerable by sharing something of himself was probably a good place to start.

As he was thinking, Ivy (in a rare moment of hostility towards the fine-haired lad), Daisy, and Anna all were reprimanding Jimmy for his unkind words, Daisy adding that some people cared enough about others to actually want to know something about them.

Thomas sighed. "Don't fault Jimmy for not being interested in romance, like you girls. But if you're still _that_ curious, fine, I'll regale you _after_ dinner." That would give Jimmy and Alfred and any other uninterested parties a chance to leave. "But I warn you now, it's not a tale full of unicorns and rainbows, and there's no happy ending."

"Of course there isn't," Ivy agreed.

Thomas stared at Ivy then. Was she suggesting that such was impossible for him? Not that she was necessarily wrong, but what had made her so sure of it?

"None of us have a sweetheart _now_ , save Mr and Mrs Bates here, so all our love stories have sad endings, don't they? But misery loves company, hence _sharing_ our stories!" Ivy explained. "Not that I'd want others to suffer," she added hurriedly, "but when you've suffered yourself, it helps to know you're not alone, that others understand what it's like."

"What _I_ would like to understand is why you girls are just standing there instead of finishing setting the table!" Mrs Patmore chided as she brought in a pot and laid it on the table. 

"Sorry, Mrs Patmore!" Ivy and Daisy chimed together, hurrying off to get more food.

~ * * * ~  
"Well, go on then," Ivy said just as Mr Carson's door closed after dinner. "Let's hear it."

Thomas flicked his eyes up nervously towards Jimmy and Alfred; the lads didn't leave, having just moved themselves down the table when seats had opened up and started playing cards. Well, it wasn't like they hadn't had plenty of warning. Besides them, Anna and Bates were playing checkers, while Mrs Hughes crocheted and Mrs Patmore was writing something; everyone else had left (including O'Brien, thankfully).

"Hear what?" Mrs Hughes asked.

"We was talkin' about sweethearts earlier, and Mr Barrow promised he'd share _his_ story after dinner," Ivy explained.

"Oh, that doesn't sound like appropriate conversation to me," Mrs Hughes said, looking at Thomas with a mix of worry and disapproval. He didn't blame her for worrying, since she knew a little of what his love life entailed -- that was, the part that could get him thrown out. Doubtless she wondered why he had made such an agreement in the first place and suspected he'd been strong-armed into it. It was also likely that she intended to get him out of it now.

The thing was, he'd decided that telling everyone _part_ of the truth was better than none; it would make it less likely that someone would go prying later --- worse, without his knowing -- and learn something they shouldn't, then (like maybe from O'Brien). This gave him an opportunity to control the information.

"It's all right, Mrs Hughes; I won't say anything that'll make the girls blush," he promised before turning partially to Ivy and lighting a cigarette. Dragging and holding the smoke in a moment to calm his nerves, he exhaled slowly, granting himself a few more seconds of procrastination, then began.

"I'd known my first sweetheart practically since we were babes in swaddling clothes," he revealedy, eyes faraway as he stared at his paper. "I was promised to someone else, but we fell in love anyway, and acted on it. My father eventually found out when I was seventeen, and disowned me." That was pretty much how it went down -- he was supposed to marry one Clarette Baker, but fell in love with her brother Declan instead.

"Disowned--he never!" Daisy gasped.

"He did," Thomas assured her, sensing that the Bateses and Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore were all listening, but not daring to check if Jimmy was. "I haven't seen my sweetheart or my family since. Best I get is some letters from a cousin who isn't any more loved than I."

Anna's hand jerked, as if she meant to reach for him, but thought better of it. He wondered if she stopped because she was repulsed or because he looked like he wouldn't welcome it. He wasn't even sure if he would. 

"Anyway, I was eventually found on the streets by the owner of a small club, someone who became both my employer and second love." He ignored the gasps from the younger girls (who, with any luck, thought the owner was a _woman_ ), hoping Mrs Hughes didn't think his story of having a dalliance with an employer too scandalous -- especially as the true circumstances were far more so! Thomas had been prostituting himself on the streets to survive, before becoming employed at the club -- which had secretly been a brothel catering largely to lavender tastes. His employer had made him feel safe and treasured -- for a while. "Eventually, though, we lost interest in one another, and I moved on." That was to say, his employer found a new toy, and so Thomas had suddenly found himself the "regular" of a dear friend of his employer, a man with rather twisted tastes. Thankfully, his employer had proved to have just enough fondness left to write a nice reference when Thomas had decided he'd better leave ....

"I had a few dalliances after that, and a few different jobs. My next _love_ , I met in London. We spent part of a summer together, and we exchanged letters for a while after, but then my love decided to go to America -- _without_ me. And basically laughed in my face when I suggested I come along."

There was a snort of amusement from the other end of the table.

"That's terrible!" Daisy said.

"It was," Thomas agreed, for the first time appreciating Daisy's interest in his affairs. It was _nice_ to have someone sympathise with him; why on Earth hadn't he realised that before?

"The fourth," he continued, "was blinded just before we met at the hospital where Lady Sybil and I worked. Sybil and me did our best to teach my love how to get around with a cane, but our patient's family sent a letter expressing some doubts about how full a life one can live in such a state. Not long after that, Major Clarkson insisted that our patient was to be sent to a convalescent home far away ...." 

Thomas paused. The memory of Edward Courtenay, the heartbreak and frustration in those unseeing eyes, and what happened after, still had the power to devastate him. He swallowed hard, blinking away tears.

"Lady Sybil and I tried to explain to Major Clarkson about our patient's depression, but his hands were tied, and neither of us could be spared to go with our friend. Well, my frightened and despondent love apparently decided in the middle of the night that _death_ was preferable to leaving us to go somewhere strange and new. And I'd never even worked up the nerve to say how I felt."

Never mind that Edward probably would have been as repulsed as Jimmy turned out to be, if Edward had ever learned he truth about Thomas ....

"That's so sad," Daisy whispered, eyes glittering when he looked her way a moment. He wondered if she was thinking about William, and how lucky she was that she only loved the boy as a friend, rather than being _in_ love with him.

Thomas flinched a little when a hand came to rest on his shoulder, but the hand -- belonging to Mrs Hughes -- did not withdraw. Instead, she squeezed, and he offered her small but genuine smile of gratitude, the best he could muster. In his peripheral, he thought Anna looked stricken, her hand at her heart.

"The fifth ... well, I misunderstood the situation. My feelings were not reciprocated, and in my foolish expression of those feelings, things turned very bad, very quickly." He caught sight of Jimmy's back stiffening, and was glad he couldn't see Jimmy's undoubtedly angry face. "I have never regretted anything more than that moment. And that, I'm afraid, was the end of my love life," he added with a rueful shrug, wondering if Jimmy would take his words as the apology they were. "Satisfied?" Thomas asked, glancing at Daisy and Ivy out of the corner of his eye.

The girls exchanged looks, clearly pitying him, and Ivy nodded. "Yeah ... I know it must have hurt, but thanks for sharin'," she added earnestly. "I hope you feel better -- my mum always said drainin' a wound was the best way to heal it."

Thomas shrugged again, not really sure yet if the act had helped the way Ivy thought or not, and the silence that followed was painfully awkward.

"Well, now that you've had your bedtime story, I think you lasses ought to head to bed," Patmore finally suggested, getting to her feet; Thomas could have kissed the woman.

"Us, too -- plenty to do tomorrow," Jimmy said to Alfred, throwing down his cards.

"Fine by me," Alfred agreed.

Thomas cursed inwardly -- he was tired himself, and frankly wanted to just like down and have a good cry after the mood his confession put him in, but he didn't feel comfortable going up with the footmen -- or rather, didn't think _they_ would feel comfortable. He'd have to hold it together a few minutes more.

"Your blind friend ... was that the patient that prompted Downton becoming a convalescent home during the war?" Mrs Hughes asked.

"Yeah," Thomas replied, his voice rough. He hesitated, since Anna was there, but decided that Bates had surely told his loving wife about what had happened between Thomas and Jimmy. He'd held this story bottled up for so long, he needed the relief that supposedly came from being able to share it -- the relief he'd experienced to some extent already with the night's tale. And if Bates and Hughes hadn't shown themselves trustworthy, who _could_ he safely tell this story to? Besides, it was about Sybil, too, and someone besides himself and Clarkson should know how caring and valuable she had been at the hospital ....

"His name was Edward Courtenay, and he was a lieutenant. Got hit by mustard gas -- his eyes were milky and scarred but ... beautiful, all the same. I read his mail to him, and one day his mother informed him that his younger brother would be taking over their estate. I tried to tell him to fight his corner, not let them make him a victim ... but then Clarkson said he had to leave because they only had beds for the badly wounded. Edward was terrified of the idea, insisting he wasn't ready, but neither his pleas nor mine nor Sybil's could change the reality of the situation. And so he snuck a razor into his bed. Poor Lady Sybil was the one who found him, in the middle of the night -- I-I even didn't find out until the next day ...." He closed his eyes and held his breath, holding in a sob. He exhaled slowly. "I don't know why I got so attached. I don't even know if he was of my ... persuasion. For all I know, he could have been in love with _Sybil_."

He wondered if he would have been jealous of or hateful towards Sybil if that had clearly been the case. He couldn't imagine hating her for anything. Maybe he even would have found it within himself to love her for making Edward happy. Then again, the idea of Thomas being able to feel that way back then was almost as unbelievable as the idea of ever hating Sybil ....

"Regardless of how he felt for you, that doesn't mean you weren't entitled to grieve the loss," Mrs Hughes insisted, laying her hand over his.

He nodded numbly, torn between enjoying the contact and being almost frightened of it. It was such a rare thing for anyone to want to have any contact with him at all and not pull away (or die, or eventually turn on him). Even before he'd been disowned, there hadn't been a lot of physical affection in his family -- most of the contact he'd had growing up was with Declan and Clarette (who was like a sister to him, had even known about him and Declan and didn't mind) ....

"I don't know for sure if Sybil knew exactly how I felt about Edward," he went on, trying to steady himself and ignore the odd urge to shrink away. "But she found me crying, and without a word, sat there and cried with me. I hope she knew how much I'd needed that."

"I'm sure she did. I don't doubt that she'd needed _you_ then as much as you'd needed her," Mrs Hughes offered.

"I never thought of that," Thomas admitted. He _hoped_ he'd helped Sybil in turn ....

He sighed heavily, suddenly drained. "Well, I think that's enough reminiscing for one evening. Good night." He nodded to Mrs Hughes and the Bateses, who all returned the pleasantry, then headed for his room. He was glad that he had walked the path so many times he could do it with his eyes shut, because eyes full of tears weren't much better to see with than closed ones.

~ * * * ~  
Elsie let out a heavy sigh when Thomas was gone. "To think he'd been grieving like that, and none of us had the faintest idea .... And the rest of it! I know that terrible things happen to people all the time, and it's no excuse for behaving badly, but ...."

Elsie had been horrified when Thomas had been named House Manager --she'd been eager for him to be gone before the war had even _started_ , and had been far from thrilled to see him return a couple of years later. She'd never even considered that he might ever have had any reasons for his behavior beyond an innate meanness -- even despite _knowing_ , thanks to her nephew, that love would be hard for someone of his inclination to find, and even harder to _act_ on. All she'd seen for the longest time when looking at him was a vain bully mistreating William and Daisy -- two of the simplest, kindest people she'd ever known. Since he hadn't been the friendliest of people before the war, It never occurred to her that Thomas, like so many, might have lost someone during it and become a member of the walking wounded ....

"It does explain a thing or two," Bates agreed. "Between his parents and a string of bad relationships, it's no wonder he didn't trust anyone for so long. Being devious and quick to hurt before he got hurt himself -- in the context of what he told us, I'd call those behaviors _survival skills_ now," Bates remarked.

"Skills honed to perfection by association with O'Brien, no doubt," Elsie muttered. "I wish now that I had paid more attention to him when he was young, and gotten him under my own wing _before_ she got her harpy's claws into him!"

"Mrs Hughes!" Anna laughed, astonished.

"Well, we can't do anything about the past, but I think he's well under your wing _now_ \-- and better for it," Bates observed.

Elsie blushed and went back to her crocheting as she replied, "I hope so. I just wish it hadn't taken him becoming so broken and humiliated to get him there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be considerably longer. I'm pretty close to done, but can't say for sure when I will get to posting it -- could be tonight, could be over the weekend, could be next week. Sorry! XD Maybe it'll help to know that the first chapter of the *next* fic (which is rather full of whump) is close to done? XD Inspiration has been coming quite out of order ....


	4. Like a Boss, Part 1: Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Downton is hosting a Hallowe'en Ball, but it seems like everything that _can _go wrong _is _going wrong. It doesn't help that not everyone is willing to be obedient or cordial to the new under-butler -- especially not Jimmy or one of the hall boys ....____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this posted! It came out much longer than I expected, so I've decided to break it up a little bit. It *is* finished, and with it, this particular story in the series.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

"What do you think you're doing?" Thomas hissed at Bradley, a hall boy, who was coming out of Lord Grantham's dressing room.

The fourteen-year-old looked panicked for a moment, but quickly recovered, granting Thomas a baleful look. "What's it to you?"

Thomas almost laughed. Had he looked that ridiculous when he was caught in a wrong doing at that age? "Answer the question," Thomas ordered tiredly.

"I don't have to listen to someone as lavender as you!" Bradley snapped. "All I have to do is tell Carson that you tried to molest me, and you'll be out on your ear!"

Thomas couldn't have been more shocked if the boy had slapped him. Never mind that Thomas didn't have the slightest interest in someone so young yet, how did the kid even _know_ about Thomas nearly being thrown out over trying to kiss Jimmy? O'Brien? Alfred? 

Thomas was at a loss as to what to say or do, and could only watch helplessly as the boy sauntered away. Thomas slipped into his lordship's dressing room and quickly scouted around, seeing if anything was missing. The whiskey decanter was a bit low, but surely Thomas would have smelled that on the lad?

His heart sank as he saw an empty place in the case holding Lord Grantham's snuff boxes -- the place where the very same snuff box that Thomas had once stolen was supposed to be. 

"Thomas?" Bates asked from the doorway, scaring Thomas half out of his skin. "Sorry, didn't mean to frighten you," Bates chuckled.

"Carson wanted me to ask His Lordship a question," Thomas explained. 

"His Lordship's actually downstairs already, in the library. He asked me to get him up early today, and after dressing him, I realised I forgot to grab a jacket he wanted mended," Bates added, going into the wardrobe.

Thomas debated whether to tell Bates about his suspicion. Would the man believe him? Would anyone, given his history? Then again, either Bates or Grantham was bound to notice the box was missing. "I spotted Bradley coming out of here!" he said in a rush, wringing his hands.

"The hall boy?" Bates asked, turning to look at Thomas, nonplussed.

Thomas nodded unhappily. "When I questioned him about it, he informed me that he didn't have to tell me anything, because if he wanted to, he could--" Thomas paused, not even wanting to say such a disgusting thing. "He could claim something that would likely get me _sacked_ , even though it's not true. I didn't know what to say to that, so I just let him go. Then I came in here, to see if he'd taken or done anything, and it looks like he, ah ... took a certain snuff box." Thomas sighed, putting a hand to his head, a wicked headache brewing.

Bates looked in the case and chuckled. "Unbelievable ... the very same one!" Then he looked abashed. "I'm sorry, I know it's not funny ...."

"Oh no, it is! The universe is having a good laugh, I'm sure ...." He ran a hand through his hair. "I have no idea how to handle this. Not just the theft, but Bradley's threat. If I back down, he'll take that as being able to get away with whatever he wants around me. But if I _tell_ ...."

"Carson _will_ believe you, and so will Lord Grantham," Bates assured him.

"But why _should_ they, after what I did already?"

"One incident in 10 years, with a man who was older than the age of majority? And you were clearly terrified of being turned out, when all you did was kiss someone! In this house, it would be hard to get away with more without someone noticing -- especially with a non-willing partner. It's not very believable that you would try such a thing again, but all _too_ believable that Bradley would try to take advantage of your precarious situation now."

Thomas sighed. "He reminds me of _me_ , when _I_ first started here -- but worse, since he's younger." Something occurred to him then, and he gave Bates a curious look. "Why didn't you squeal on me when you saw me take the wine?"

"Well ... I suppose part of it was that, when you learned that I didn't tell, I had hoped you would realise I _wasn't_ out to get you ...."

Thomas winced. "I was really thick, wasn't I?"

"Paranoid, more like -- and all things considered, I can see why you would be."

Thomas chuckled. "Thanks for that. But go on, then -- what's the rest?"

"You mean besides the fact that it would have been my word, as a newcomer, against the word of someone who'd been here for a while? Another part of it was that I had gone to prison for petty theft myself, and wouldn't wish that on anyone. But the last part of it is what you need most concern yourself with: it's hard to gain respect if you have to get others to fight your battles. If I had tattled, it would look to everyone like I had no power of my own, and needed Carson's or His Lordship's help to accomplish anything. I was already treading water over the fact that I only was hired because I was a friend of His Lordship's."

Thomas nodded thoughtfully. "So I need to both get the box back and get Bradley to respect me, and not involve Carson or His lordship in the process ...." He rubbed his neck, sighing.

Bates smiled, patting the under-butler's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

~ * * * ~  
" _What?_ You've _got_ to be joking!" Jimmy insisted, staring at Mr Barrow like he'd grown a second head.

Alfred wondered if he himself was staring at Jimmy with a similar expression -- several others in the room certainly did. Bradley, though, was practically the mirror image of Jimmy. _Ugh, the last thing we need is the hall boys following in Jimmy's footsteps,_ Alfred thought to himself.

"We missed breakfast because of _this_ \--" Jimmy continued, pointing to the wreck of a room that he, Alfred, and several hall boys and maids had been cleaning up after a window had blown open and rain had soaked half the plush furniture "--and now we'll have to go hunting around the attic for more furniture to carry down? _Without a break?_ "

"I know, I know, don't shoot the messenger," Mr Barrow replied tiredly, holding up his hands in surrender. "I can't help how pressed for time we are. We need _every_ room livable, what with how many guests will be arriving tomorrow for the Hallowe'en Ball. Now here ...." He carried a tray over to a table and uncovered it, revealing an odd assortment of rolls, cheeses, and biscuits. Anna came in after him, carrying a water jug and glasses. Together, they laid a dropcloth on the floor next to the table; where they stepped, water seeped through it.

"This is _it_?" Jimmy complained, staring at the meager repast.

Alfred suppressed an urge to kick the man; if Jimmy made it more trouble than it was worth to feed them in such circumstances, then next time they might be left to starve!

"I'm sorry, but it's the best we could scrape together," Mr Barrow apologised with a curious lack of snark. "Mrs Patmore's on the rampage, what with all the preparations! We've been informed, in no uncertain terms, that we must fend for ourselves until after the ball."

"You might show a bit of appreciation, Jimmy," Anna added, looking cross. "We haven't had anything any better or much sooner than what you're getting now, and here we are spending half our tea break bringing this up to you lot!"

"That is to say, Mr Carson doesn't know about this -- you know how he is about any of us eating up here," Mr Barrow hurriedly interjected, with a much kinder tone. "And like Mrs Patmore, this event has him in a tizzy. If he had his choice, you'd all be wolfing this down in the servant's hall, probably _after_ working in the attic."

Alfred wondered if Jimmy even realised how the temperaments of Mr Barrow and Anna seemed to have been swapped -- probably not, as Mr Barrow was always more patient with Jimmy than he was with anyone else. Alfred then pushed thoughts of _why_ that was so away ....

"Just don't spill any crumbs anywhere but the cloth, all right? Or Carson'll skin us _all_ alive," the under-butler warned, turning to leave.

"So what are _you_ doing, then?" Jimmy snapped before the man could pass the threshold.

Mr Barrow took a deep breath; Alfred supposed even when you were in love, you could only take so much abuse.

Barrow only half-turned as he explained patiently, "Carson's been having me shadow him all morning, and now he wants me to help him decide what we should bring down from the attic. If he'll let me, I'll help you up there." Barrow tried to make for the door again.

"Oh, _no_ , I wouldn't want you to put yourself out, _Mr Barrow_ ," Jimmy said acidly, not allowing the man to escape unscathed. "Delicate creatures shouldn't have to do such rough work as heavy lifting."

"James!" Anna snapped, sounding more angry than shocked.

"It's all right, Anna," was all Barrow said before finally slipping past the door, the housemaid pausing just a moment to shake her head at Jimmy in disgust before following.

~ * * * ~  
Anna hurried after Thomas, but waited until they'd turned a corner before grabbing his arm and laying into him. "What is the _matter_ with you? The Thomas _I_ know would _never_ stand for someone speaking to him like that!"

The shock on the under-butler's face morphed into shame before he looked away. "You mean the Thomas you -- and everyone else -- _hated_?" he asked quietly, tiredly, and without even a hint of malice.

That robbed Anna of speech for a moment. It had been about a month now since the cricket match, and she still couldn't get over the change in Thomas. Not that she hadn't believed her husband about it, exactly, but believing in John and believing in _Thomas_ were different animals -- at least, they were before Thomas had nearly been sacked without a reference. Admittedly, she hadn't even _wanted_ to see the change at first. One found comfort in the familiar, she supposed, even when it was also unpleasant.

Then again, she'd often expressed the wish over the years that Thomas would be _nicer_ ....

Still .... "Thomas, being the better man doesn't mean you have to let someone walk all over you, and letting Jimmy be cruel in your place won't serve anyone."

"But he's _not_ , is he?" Thomas replied with only the tiniest hint of bite -- in defence of Jimmy, no less, rather than in defence of himself. "He was speaking only to me, I think, not you -- and after what I did, I can't exactly blame him for his attitude. If venting like that is what he has to do in order to be able to work with me, then ... well, how could I dare ask anything else of him?" he finished, shrugging helplessly.

Anna couldn't argue with the wrongness of imposing a kiss on someone exactly, but she also understood that O'Brien had muddied the waters; Thomas very probably _wouldn't_ have kissed the boy if his ex-friend hadn't deluded him into thinking Jimmy returned his feelings. And Mrs Hughes had expressed to John the belief that Jimmy had, intentionally or not, led Thomas on; in reflecting on the pre-Incident interactions between the pair, Anna and John had to come to agree that such was very likely. In fact, John had decided that O'Brien had put the idea of encouraging Thomas in Jimmy's head. And with that in mind ....

"If it truly bothers him that much, Jimmy _could_ leave!" Anna pointed out in a harsh whisper.

"But _I_ wronged _him_! He shouldn't _have_ to leave -- _I_ should. I'd get a reference now, after all, thanks to your husband! But unfortunately for Jimmy, I'm a _coward_ ," Thomas added, barely audible, as he stalked off.

 _If being afraid of losing your whole world and facing the unknown is cowardice, then I'm sure the world is_ full _of cowards,_ Anna thought to herself -- too late to say it to Thomas, but she doubted he'd listen right then anyway.

~ * * * ~  
"This is the last piece," Thomas said, moving to take hold of the backless end of a chaise lounge.

"Oh, so _now_ you're going to help us," Jimmy sneered.

Stung, Thomas didn't bother pointing out that he'd been acting in the capacity of Carson (who'd left the attic to attend to other matters) all this while, directing people as to what to take from the attic-- a task Thomas couldn't perform so well from in a staircase or on the second floor. Anything he said would sound like an excuse, he reckoned, even if his own choice would have been to help all along, instead of just with the last item.

" _You_ can be the one going down backwards," Jimmy suggested as he and Alfred lifted the other end of the lounge.

Thomas ignored the twinge of pain in his bad hand as he lifted. They made it down the first set of stairs and half-way down the second before that hand spasmed and he lost his grip. Jimmy, caught off-guard by the lounge's sudden jerk, stumbled a little, and the lounge tipped to one side. All three men struggled to regain their footing by grabbing for the bannister closest to them with one hand. Thomas managed to brace the weight of the lounge against his shaking legs for a moment, allowing the other lads to reaffirm their grips before he did the same.

"Watch it, Clodhopper!" Jimmy snapped. "God, I thought I might get worked to death eventually, but not by taking a tumble whilst moving furniture!"

"S-sorry," Thomas mumbled, heart racing as much in embarrassment as for coming close to taking a nasty spill down the stairs or being flattened by a fancy sofa ....

~ * * * ~  
"But you said this morning that we _could_ go as soon as the lunch silver was cleaned!" Alfred was protesting to Carson as Thomas came into the servants' hall, a pair of maids hurrying in behind him.

"And _now_ I am saying _no _," Carson replied firmly. "I sympathise, but if you want to be angry with anyone over this, blame Mother Nature for requiring us to spend time that was meant to be spent this morning on polishing the silver, on repairing the Green Room instead. As the silver cannot polish itself, you and James shall be spending the early evening doing that -- and be grateful that the silver should provide reason for you to _employed_. Mr Barrow shall assist you," Carson went on. "Speaking of whom, Mr Barrow, what were you doing with the maids instead of clearing up?" __

__"Oh, please don't be cross, Mr Carson," one of the maids -- Joanie, if Thomas remembered correctly, cut in. "Mr Barrow was helpin' us with a chandelier in the drawing room what had a few bulbs burnt out. Missy and me, we was told that we ought to always 'ave a footman or a tall hall boy 'elp us wif that! Missy held the ladder for 'im, an' I turned the lights on an' off after 'e replaced each one."_ _

__Carson turned to Jimmy and Alfred. "Weren't you nearby, putting the dining room to rights?"_ _

__"I know where the bulbs are stored, Mr Carson, so I told them I would handle it," Thomas explained, hiding his irritation with the bubble-headed maid, trying not to regret helping her or Missy. "Jimmy and Alfred worked very hard today, and I didn't see a reason to make them wait any longer for a rest."_ _

__"Oh, aye, Alfred and Jimmy worked very hard today, and it only takes one man to screw in a lightbulb," Mrs Obrien weighed in._ _

__Thomas wondered if that a wholly innocent and accurate point was made on her nephew's behalf -- or if it was a jab at his sexual preference, in which screwing of another nature required _two_ men ...._ _

__"And I suppose you were watching them work while you were attending your own duties?" Mrs Hughes asked O'Brien._ _

__"No, but I believe my nephew when he tells me how his day has gone," O'Brien replied with strained pleasantness._ _

__"Yes, well, that's quite enough discussion on the matter," Carson decided, dismissing them to their duties._ _

__Jimmy and Alfred went into the pantry to bring out the silver they were to polish; Thomas hurried after them._ _

__"Forget the silver," Thomas told them. "Help Ivy and Daisy wash the china, and the four of you can still make that picture you wanted to see."_ _

__"Really, Mr Barrow?" Alfred asked excitedly._ _

__Jimmy didn't seem to be able to decide whether to smile or scowl._ _

__"Yes, really," Thomas insisted. "If Carson has a problem with it, he can take it out on me -- he'd probably _like_ that." _He wouldn't have to go far to get a horsewhip ...._ Thomas barely managed not to shudder in revulsion._ _

__"But what about the silver?" Alfred worried._ _

__"I can manage that," Thomas assured him. He didn't mention it, but this was his half-day; he could spend all evening on polishing, if he needed to. "Go on, then, before I change my mind. And make sure you're back and dressed by six so Carson doesn't skin us all!"_ _

__"Yessir! Thank you, Mr Barrow!" (Alfred's smile improved his features a little, but not enough that he would ever have to worry about unwanted attention from Thomas.)_ _

__Alfred grabbed as much of the silver as he could, helpfully carrying the pieces to the table. Jimmy didn't bother with offering any thanks, but he seemed pleased behind his ever-present smirk. He placed the tureen he'd picked up back on the shelf, hurrying back into the servants' hall._ _

__As Thomas picked up the tureen himself, he told himself that Jimmy was just eager to get to the film, rather than eager to get away from _him_._ _

__After setting the silver serving trays, candelabras, and other items for the ball on the table, and gathering the cleaning materials, Thomas set to work. Bates wordlessly reached over and took a candelabra, handing it to Anna before taking another for himself. Anna plucked a couple of rags from a pile Thomas had laid on the table, dipped them in the polish, and handed one to her husband._ _

__Thomas bit back the knee-jerk urge to tell them he could handle it all himself, instead managing a quiet "Thanks."_ _

__Bates granted him a wan smile. "A burden shared is a burden halved, my mother always said."_ _

__"And I imagine we're all going to need our full strength tomorrow, so it's best if you can get to bed early," Anna opined. "Do this on your own, and you'd be up half the night! That was really nice of you to let them go, though," she added._ _

__"But you don't think I _ought_ to have let them, because you think I'm letting them take advantage of me," he ventured a little tiredly, sensing what she'd left unspoken._ _

__"Well ... you said it, not me."_ _

__"But it's not like they _asked_ me to, and they _did_ work hard today --harder than _I_ had to," he pointed out, cringing inwardly as he realised that it sounded like he was pleading._ _

__"I suppose ...." Anna didn't sound convinced, but thankfully let it drop._ _

__The three of them chatted amiably after that. Granted, it was mostly Anna talking, since Bates wasn't exactly the conversational type -- and Thomas wasn't yet used to the idea of _friendly_ conversation, and didn't want to say something he shouldn't. Still, he was surprised to find that, when he didn't have his angry-at-the-world glasses on, so to speak, and didn't have O'Brien around to goad him, he found the Bateses to actually be pleasant company!_ _

__Well, aside from their very existence being a reminder of the kind of life he could never have ...._ _


	5. Like A Boss, Part 2: Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the Hallowe'en Ball, and Murphy's Law seems in full effect ....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

"Mr Barrow, why are you here alone?" Carson asked a weary Thomas, who was handling door-duty the next morning. 

They had so many guests coming, they would never get the preparations all done if the whole staff greeted everyone all day long, so only the most privileged guests would get the full treatment, and the rest would have to be content with just two servants to greet them. Or rather, _one_ now, since Jimmy was who-knew-where ....

"Apologies, Mr Carson, but we had a bit of a spill down the stairs yesterday when we were carrying the chaise lounge, and James is limping today." That might or might not have been true; Thomas had no idea how Jimmy was doing because Jimmy hadn't been at the door at _all_ since Thomas had arrived.

" _What?_ We can't afford to be down a footman this evening!" Carson huffed.

"I don't think we will be -- it didn't look bad or anything. I just didn't want to push our luck, which is why I told him to go rest it," Thomas lied through his teeth, remembering his commandment against lying too late and hoping this wasn't going to come back to bite him in the arse. 

"Well, why didn't you have him send Alfred up?"

"I ... didn't think of it?"

Carson rolled his eyes. "I'll go tell Alfred to let James finish with the crystalware and come help you instead." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot what I came up here for! Have you finished with the clock for the dining room? "

"Just about; I wanted to polish it up a bit more before I put it back. Tell you what, Mr Carson: if you'll watch the door, I'll go run up and grab it and fetch Alfred, and I can finish up with the clock between arrivals."

Carson thought about it for a moment, while Thomas tried to will the man to say agree -- which the butler did. "Very well, Mr Barrow -- hop to it, then."

Thomas bit back a sigh of relief -- if Carson had run into Jimmy before Thomas could warn him and get their stories straight, he and Jimmy _both_ would have been in hot water.

~ * * * ~  
Jimmy was already _in_ the kitchen when Thomas got down there, but the footman wasn't _working_ , exactly -- unless one considered taste-testing to be work.

"Oh, hey, Thomas, you come test this for us too!" Daisy said brightly when she saw him, Alfred puttering around behind her and Mrs Patmore nowhere to be seen.

"Sorry, can't now, Daisy, haven't the time," he replied distractedly before addressing the wayward blond and his red-headed partner-in-crime. "You two, with me," he told them, heading out into the empty servants' hall.

Realizing he hadn't been followed, he ducked his head back into the kitchen. "Would you rather it be _Carson_ talking to you?" he asked, exasperated.

That got the lads moving.

"Jimmy, what are you doing down here instead of at the door?" Thomas turned and asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "And for that matter, Alfred, why aren't you washing the crystalware?" They were going to need significantly more than usual!

"I didn't see much point in standing idly by the door all morning when I can hear the bell for it perfectly well down here," Jimmy began, not trying hard to keep his own irritation hidden at all, "so I helped Alfred wash and dry the crystalware. We've finished."

_Translation: he didn't want to have to spend the morning with nothing but me and long stretches of boredom,_ Thomas thought to himself, wondering if things were _ever_ going to be comfortable between them again -- and fearing that they wouldn't.

"And when Mrs Patmore saw I was done, she asked me to lend a hand while she ran to the village to help Mrs Crawley's new cook with sommat she's supposed to prepare for tonight," Alfred chimed in.

_So they weren't exactly committing the worst sins in the world, helping out other staff,_ Thomas thought. _Efficient, even. But Carson's not going to see it that way ...._ "Well, Carson's upstairs handling the door as we speak--"

The doorbell rang, meaning Carson needed help.

"--and I'm guessing that bell means that a guest has already arrived," Thomas hazarded.

"Christ!" Jimmy swore, moving to answer the bell.

"Not so fast," Thomas said, grabbing the lad's arm.

Jimmy gave him a dark, dangerous look, and Thomas quickly let go, as if the footman's arm were on fire.

"I had to make up an excuse as to why you weren't where were supposed to be! I said you'd twisted your ankle a little yesterday, and I'd told you to stay off it today so you'd be all right for tonight," Thomas explained. "Now Carson wants _you_ to help down here, and wants _Alfred_ at the door."

"But Mrs Patmore wants me _here!_ " Alfred complained.

_And_ you'd _rather be here, wouldn't you?_ Thomas thought to himself. He wasn't even sure it was all about being near Ivy, either, having noted the boy talk about food with Mrs Patmore now and then. "Yes, well, _we_ don't work for Mrs Patmore; we do what Mr _Carson_ wants to, yes?"

After hesitating and exchanging a weird look with Jimmy, as if asking permission, Alfred began to remove his apron. "Yes, Mr Barrow." Thomas could have sworn the giant shrank a good three inches as his shoulders slumped dejectedly.

"It's good that you want to be helpful, Alfred, but next time please check with Mr Carson or myself first, to make sure there isn't something _we_ need you for. Now go on." He gestured with his head to the hall; with a nod in reply, Alfred hurried out.

Thomas turned to Jimmy. "If the doorbell rings, send a hall boy if you can spot one; otherwise, don't forget to limp." And with that, Thomas hurried up the stairs to his room to fetch the clock.

~ * * * ~  
Thomas breathlessly hurried back to the door from his bedroom, clock in hand, to find a commotion at the front door. He quickly ascertained that, because it had started drizzling, Carson had apparently tried to take in the guest's luggage, a heavy trunk, in by himself -- and threw his back out in the process. Alfred had helped the butler take a seat in the library. Thomas hurriedly set the clock down on a table in the library, then helped Alfred bring in the trunk. Ringing the doorbell and hoping for a hall boy instead of Jimmy, Thomas soothed the sobbing guest (who blamed herself for Carson's current state), then had Alfred lead her to her room. After the gangly youth returned, followed by Bradley (who remained civil, probably thanks to the nearby presence of Carson), Thomas finally was free to call Dr Clarkson for Carson and let Lord Grantham know what had happened (the butler wouldn't hear of Thomas taking the time to do so before there were at _least_ two people at the door). After that, Thomas finished with the clock while waiting for the doctor.

Clarkson arrived before long, and looked the butler over. When he finished, he and Thomas, under Grantham's insistence, helped the protesting Carson get settled into the room that Matthew Crawley had stayed in on the first floor (back when they'd thought the heir paralised). Not that Carson was nearly so badly off, but none of them much liked the idea of trying to get the man down the stairs to his own room in his condition. Clarkson then slipped Carson a sedative under the pretext of it being a painkiller, worrying that the butler was just going to hurt himself more -- or try to sneak out when their backs were turned. Satisfied that Carson would be out for a while, they left the room.

" _Now_ what are we going to do?" Lord Grantham as he and Thomas entered the saloon, Grantham then leading Thomas into the library.

"Milord?"

"About tonight?" Grantham clarified. "The captain of the ship is down!"

"But not the ship itself," Thomas replied. "Begging your pardon, Milord," he added hurriedly. "But the captain's job entails deciding the course and delegating the work, and Mr Carson's done all that, most admirably. I'm confident everyone will know what they are meant to do tonight."

The appraising look Grantham gave Thomas made the hair on under-butler's neck stand on end. "Especially if the first mate is still on deck to keep things shipshape," His Lordship observed.

Thomas swallowed hard. So that's the way it was to be, was it? Would he _sink_ with the ship, too, if tonight turned out to be a disaster? "I shall endeavor to do Mr Carson and the house proud, milord," Thomas hedged, praying that there were no as-yet-hidden iceberg-sized problems in his future.

~ * * * ~  
"Can you believe that woman, hiring a cook without actually testing the girl! I ended up making the canapés _m'self!_ And then Thomas had to go and take away the one person who would have been of any use," Mrs Patmore was complaining to Mrs Hughes just as Thomas walked in. "Speak of the devil," Patmore added as she caught sight of him. "What's the big idea, taking Alfred and leaving me with this useless oaf?" she asked, pointing to Jimmy with a spoon. "He can't even mince correctly, and spends more time chattin' up and distractin' the girls than actually workin'! Do you have any idea how behind we are? You _do_ want the guests to be able to eat tonight, I assume?"

Something occurred to Thomas just then: laid up as the butler was, there was no risk of the man seeing the healthy state of Jimmy's ankle! "Right you are, Mrs Patmore! Jimmy, head upstairs and send Alfred back down, please."

Jimmy looked alarmed.

Thomas trusted that his next words would ease the lad's worry. "Mrs Hughes, I'm afraid Mr Carson has thrown his back out. We had to put him to bed in Mr Crawley's old room." Thomas was glad to see Jimmy's shoulders relax as the younger man left the kitchen.

"Good Heavens! Is he all right?" Mrs Hughes asked.

"Yes, but Dr Clarkson says he'll need to stay off his feet for at least three days." 

Just then, Mrs Patmore pushed past with a huff.

"Perhaps we'd better take this conversation out of Mrs Patmore's way," Mrs Hughes suggested, leading him to her sitting room. "Is Dr Clarkson still here?" she immediately asked as soon as the door was closed. "I was just about to call him, but Mrs Patmore waylaid me."

Thomas got a sinking feeling in his stomach. "No, he's left already -- why?"

Mrs Hughes sighed. "I do believe Samuel and Geoffrey have the chickenpox. Paul says he's never had it, so if I'm right, you know he's next. I haven't had a chance to talk to Bradley."

Thomas sank heavily into a chair, putting his head in his hands. "And if Bradley hasn't had it, even if he still _seems_ fine, he might be contagious, so he can't serve or he'll pass it to guests who haven't had it themselves. That means there's just four, _maybe_ five of us to serve almost _fifty people_ at the ball tonight -- provided that Alfred, Jimmy, and Molesley have all had it already."

"Oh dear, I hadn't thought of that -- adults having the chickenpox!" Mrs Hughes admitted. "I'll need to check with everyone in the kitchen as well, and all the maids ...."

"Ohhhh, this is not happening, this is _not happening_ ...." he moaned.

He was touched when Mrs Hughes rubbed soothing circles on his back, but it didn't really help the situation.

Neither did her suggestion. "You know ... we _could_ use the maids -- the ones who've already had the chickenpox, I mean ...."

He lifted his head and blinked at her in disbelief. "Do you _want_ Carson to have a heart attack?"

"Anna served sometimes during the war," she pointed out.

"And Mr Carson hated every moment of that, _and_ it's not wartime now," he returned. 

As Thomas moved to rest his throbbing head back into his hands, his eyes fell on a small box on the floor. It looked to be full of masks, all of them being simple-shaped black affairs with a bit of silver glitter. "Are those masks for guests who didn't bring one?" he asked, thinking they ought to be put upstairs.

"No, actually -- Lady Edith brought them down for _you_ and the rest of the boys, apparently, to wear when you serve."

"What, so the guests can't tell the servants from the other guests?" he chuckled -- then suddenly sat up straight. "Wait a minute ... what if we dress a few of the maids up as _hall boys?_ " he suggested, hope making his heart leap in a different way from panic. "Put their hair up a-and put masks on them, and the guests probably won't look close enough to notice! Especially if we're using candlelight, for ambience, instead of the electricity!"

Mrs Hughes nodded thoughtfully. "That just might work!"

"So I'll go check with Jimmy and Bradley at the front door. You call Dr Clarkson, then see if Anna's willing to serve again, and any of the other maids." 

~ * * * ~  
"You best go downstairs and wait for Dr Clarkson, then," Thomas told Bradley upon learning that the lad had _not_ had the chickenpox yet. (Although, Thomas wasn't sure if it was true or the lad was just glad for an excuse to get out of work ....)

"Why does he need to see Dr Clarkson?" Lord Grantham asked, coming out of the library.

Thomas cringed inwardly. He had still been debating whether to tell His Lordship about the loss of the hall boys; now there was nothing for it.

"Good Heavens!" was His Lordship's reply; Thomas found himself suddenly picturing Grantham in Mrs Hughes clothes, and just barely managed to keep his lips from quirking. "Do you think we should cancel?" Grantham posed, looking like he hoped the answer would be a no. Everyone was hoping the revelry might help cheer everyone up, or at least distract them from their grief over Sybil for a little while.

"I think it's a bit late for that, milord, but I do have an idea." Thomas then revealed his plan to disguise a maid or three as a hall boy. "And if someone figures it out, well, we can just say it was a Hallowe'en trick."

"Brilliant, Barrow!" His Lordship laughed, patting Thomas on the back. "Your quick thinking may very well have just saved the day!"

Thomas found himself standing a little straighter. _Don't let it go to your head, old son -- 'Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall,' and all that._ Thomas had, upon a few occasions, pictured himself the future butler of Downton, but now, with the stress of the day, found himself hoping Carson waited a good many years before retiring ....

"What about valets?" Grantham then asked. "We can't have a maid do _that_."

"So far, every guest had brought their own," Thomas replied. "I don't foresee a problem there."

"Well, if it does become one, tell Bates that I can dress myself if need be. He can handle two guests, then, I should think."

"Of course, milord." A thought struck Thomas then. "And it occurs to me that, if Mr Bates is amenable, he could do door duty during the ball. That would free Alfred up to carry a tray."

"Yes, I don't see why not. Good thinking! Carson will be most impressed with your ability to adapt, Barrow!" His Lordship praised Thomas with a pat to the under-butler's shoulder.

Thomas appreciated the praise, but was skeptical that Carson would be so thrilled with his decision-making. "Er, beg pardon, milord, but I'd rather we _didn't_ mention all this to Mr Carson. I think it would only make him worry _more_ about leaving us to handle big events, truth be told, hearing about so much going wrong." Or make him think Thomas was vying for his job, when for once Thomas absolutely _wasn't_.

"'So much'?" Grantham frowned. "You mean _more_ has happened than his back going out and some hall boys getting sick?"

Thomas cursed himself inwardly. "Apparently Mrs Crawley's new cook isn't proving very capable, and so Mrs Patmore had to take over doing the stuff the other girl was supposed to do in the cottage kitchen, Alfred had to help out in ours while Mrs Patmore was away, and Mrs Patmore feels they've fallen behind. Add in the idea of us using maids to serve, when you know he quite hates that ...."

"Oh, dear! Perhaps you're right; we _should_ keep Carson in the dark about how the day is going ...."

~ * * * ~  
Thomas hadn't had a smoke since that morning; coupling that fact with the stress of the day so far, his hands were trembling as he lit one now. He told himself it was just the chill air.

"Don't suppose you have one to spare?" came a once-welcome voice.

How could he loath it so and yet still miss it as he did?

Wordlessly, Thomas held one out, then his lighter. He told himself this was part of his effort to be nice, but he worried that it was just a matter of him being too worn out to be mean. 

"Much obliged," O'Brien said, sounding just as weary as he felt.

Silently, he waited until she was finished, and they went back inside together. No other words passed between them. He couldn't decide if he wanted any to, and wondered if _she_ did.

~ * * * ~  
"Well, how do I look?" Anna asked as she turned about in the servants' hall, showing off her livery.

"As your husband, I'm not sure how I should answer that," John teased.

"I'll take a kiss," she replied with a grin.

"Sorry, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline," he told her, barely managing to keep a serious face.

Anna blinked in confusion. "What?"

"I can't kiss a hall boy! I'd be arrested!" he insisted.

"You mean _promoted_ ," she chuckled ruefully.

"Oh, well, in _that_ case ...." He gave her a kiss that would send Carson into conniptions if the butler were witness to it.

"You look quite sharp yourself," Anna remarked, stepping back and glancing him over.

John looked down at his own livery, provided by Mr Carson, who was of a size with him. "Would you look at that -- I've been promoted to butler!" he quipped.

~ * * * ~  
When Mrs Hughes approached Thomas in the servants' hall wearing a look of great trepidation, Thomas immediately wanted to put his hands to his ears and go "Lalalalala, I can't hear you!" Whatever she was about to say, he knew it wouldn't be good, and his gut proved all too accurate (for once).

"The band for tonight was coming in as Dr Clarkson was leaving, and he caught sight of the pianist ...."

"Aaaand he's got the chickenpox too, hasn't he?" Thomas sighed, pinching his nose.

"I'm afraid so," Mrs Hughes confirmed. "What should we do?"

"Can they get a replacement?" he asked, raking his hair through his fingers. 

"They're trying, but it's not looking good. And they insist they wouldn't sound right without him."

Thomas plopped down on a chair, all his remaining energy vanishing in defeat. "That's it, then. Party's over." _And my job, with it?_

He glanced absently towards the piano in the corner of the room -- and was nearly knocked out of his seat by a powerful memory of a perfectly-quaffed lad playing a lively tune there.

"Jimmy!"

"Oh, what now?" Jimmy grumbled as he came into the room.

"James!" Mrs Hughes admonished.

Thomas appreciated her gesture, but ... "It's all right, Mrs Hughes; it's been a rough day, and he's tired. I think you'll like this, though, Jimmy: we want you to play piano tonight!" Thomas smiled, but it quickly faded when he realised Jimmy looked perturbed.

"And _when_ exactly did my job description expand to being the entertainment?"

Oh. Thomas saw his point -- and a way to salvage the situation. "No, no, it's not like that -- you'll be paid _extra_ for it -- you'll get what the original pianist would have gotten, _besides_ your own wage! It's only fair, right?" he added pointedly when it seemed Mrs Hughes was about to protest.

"Oh. Well, all right then," Jimmy agreed, mollified if not exactly enthusiastic. 

~ * * * ~  
A while later, it was time to decant the wine -- which Thomas needed to bring up from the cellar, first. While in the cellar, he heard a scraping sound. At first, he thought was a mouse, until he heard a sniffle to go with it. He peeked between two wine racks, and found Bradley sitting there, looking mulish, an open bottle gripped tightly in his hand.

"Whatchoo lookin' at?" Bradley muttered with a slight slur.

"A mirror, apparently," Thomas sighed, setting the bottles he'd picked up down. "You got away with nicking that snuff box, and you get the next few days off, maybe even a week, so what's got you so upset? There are worse illnesses to have than the chickenpox."

"You want the stupid snuff box back? Here, take it!" Bradley told him, pulling the box out of his pocket and tossing it at a rack across the way.

Thomas nearly had a heart attack, but the box bounced harmlessly off the wood without even denting its own metal, much less breaking any bottles. "Why give it back?" he wondered aloud as he picked it up, not really expecting an answer.

"I snuck down to the village to sell it, but the pawn broker said I must of stole it. I thought he was gonna call the police on me, so I snatched it back and ran out. Since I couldn't get anything for it, why bring the grief of a search down on us later, when His Lordship notices it missing? It'd be better to put it back -- but it'll be easier to have _you_ do it than try it myself."

The urchin had a lot of audacity, Thomas would grant him that. "And why should I do that for you?"

"Have you forgotten already?" Bradley gave a contemptuous snort.

"Oh, yes, your little blackmail scheme. Tell me, just how much _do_ you know?" There was no use in trying to deny it, Thomas felt, when Bradley clearly knew _something_ \-- it would just make Thomas appear afraid of what the boy might do to him.

"Only _everything_ ," the boy answered with a sneer. "You like blokes, you tried to kiss Jimmy, you almost got sacked without a reference ...."

"And yet I didn't," Thomas pointed out. "It's the only time I've been caught in _ten years_. Not only that, but I got _promoted_. So why is it you think an accusation from _you_ is going to get me thrown out, when Jimmy didn't manage it?"

"You only got to stay because His Lordship is a complete nutter when it comes to cricket!" the boy retorted.

Thomas felt rage come and go in a flash. He was grateful beyond measure to His Lordship, but that didn't change the facts. "I suppose he is, at that," Thomas chuckled, "But the point is that I _am_ still here. His Lordship could have sacked me after the match and had Carson scour the country for other good players -- ones _without_ such potential for scandal. Why do you suppose he didn't?"

Bradley didn't have a reply to that. Thomas didn't either, but it was better to let the boy think he did.

"So. Now that we have an understanding, tell me what you needed the money for," Thomas prodded gently, tapping the boy's leg with his foot. (He didn't dare sit and get his pants dirty.)

"Why should I tell you?" Bradley asked petulantly.

"Do you think it would go better for you if we were enemies or friends?"

Again, Bradley had no reply.

"Look, kid, it's easier to fight your corner if you have people _in_ your corner, but getting that means letting people in. If you build walls up around yourself, you can't complain when those who would help you can't get past them."

Bradley eyed Thomas warily. "And why should _you_ be one of the ones I let in?"

Thomas shrugged. "Suit yourself, if you don't think I would helpful to be on you're the good side of one of your bosses." He started picking up the bottles. "But you might bear in mind that I have to keep track of the bottles in here,. If you're going to insist on being an arse, you are _sadly_ mistaken if you think I'm going anyone else get blamed for your theft. But if you can see your way towards being polite and obedient, I think I can add one more bottle to the ledger for tonight's party."

Bradley swallowed hard. "Could ... could you make it two?" he asked, wincing.

Thomas snorted. "All right. _If_ you tell me about the snuff box."

Bradley bit his lip, considering.

"Come on, now, lad, I haven't got all day. I'm not asking so I can punish you; I'm asking so I can try to fix the problem, whatever it is. You don't risk getting sacked or arrested for no reason -- you need the money for something, something that's got you seriously stressed. When you're stressed and act up, it stresses everyone around you in turn. And the _less_ stressed everyone is, the better place this is to work, don't you think?"

Bradley sat silent for a long moment. "It's me sis," he answered finally. "She needs reading glasses. But me dad, he doesn’t fink it's important for a girl to be able to read -- finks it's better if they don't -- so he won't buy her a pair."

_Sybil would be furious,_ Thomas mused. Then he thought of Clarette, and her vast love of books; she'd needed glasses as well, but thankfully her parents could afford them and hadn't seen her as a burden because of her gender. He couldn't imagine what she would have been like if she'd been stifled by an inability to read the words across the page. There was no question: he had to help somehow.

"Now see, that wasn't so hard, was it?" he said gently. "And now we can see what we can do to get your sister some glasses."

"W-what do you mean?" Bradley asked, looking alarmed and scrambling wobbly to his feet.

Thomas furrowed his brow, confused by Bradley's sudden fear. "I don't need to mention the snuff box when I talk to Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes about you wanting to help your sister, if _that's_ what you're worried about."

Bradley shook his head. "It's me dad ... h-he won't like it if he finds out I told anyone ...."

Ah, and would probably beat Bradley for making their family look like a charity case. "Well, what were you going to tell him if you'd been able to sell the snuff box and buy her a pair?"

"That one of the ladies got a new pair and tossed her old ones."

"Well, then, that's _still_ what you'll tell him. He doesn’t need to know that anyone _else_ knows."

Although, truth be told, he worried Bradley's father would think them stolen .... He started to get an idea, but decided it was best to keep mum about it until he'd had a chance to talk to someone about it. "For now, you'd best get back to bed, eh? I've got decanting to do. Truce?" Thomas asked, holding out his hand.

Bradley hesitated a moment, but when he finally shook, his grasp was firm, his look determined -- and friendly.


	6. Like A Boss, Part 3: The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for the ball, and despite the day, everything seems to be going well -- until Thomas recognises someone from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

The ball was in full swing, and Thomas had actually started to relax, things were going so smoothly. By the time it had started, the surfaces in Patmore's kitchen had been overflowing with food; Thomas was fairly certain they would not only _not_ run out, but would have leftovers as well. And in addition to Anna, they'd managed to disguise (and quickly train) three more of the maids; with Bates, they had enough people to cover the loss of hall boys _and_ Jimmy.

The only problem was Jimmy himself: how beautiful he was as he played, glowing as he was allowed to unleash his passion for music. Like a number of the ladies (and, Thomas noted, a few of the men), Thomas found it very difficult to tear his eyes away from the sight.

At least, he did until he heard a certain name spoken.

"Oh Clarette, you're _terrible_ ," a woman was laughing, sounding scandalised.

Thomas whipped his head around so quickly, he pulled a muscle and almost tipped his tray. He didn't know precisely who had spoken -- and didn't care. What he _did_ care about was a familiar spill of reddish-brown mane, striking green eyes, and three small moles beside a pair of soft, lush lips.

Lips he was utterly familiar with, even if the kisses had always been chaste, the sort reserved for pretend princes -- and brothers, whether of blood or the heart. Never mind the mask she wore; it didn't hide who she was, not from him. He would never forget her, not those eyes that had always pierced to the heart of him with ease, nor that hair she was always twirling around a finger -- as she was doing right now. He would have known her even without having heard her name, he was sure.

Panicked, he tried to turn away, but he was spotted -- not by _her_ , but one of her companions. "I say, good fellow, bring some of that champagne here; I'm parched!" the man cheerfully beckoned. 

Thomas came to stand somewhat behind Clarette as he held his tray out to her companion. As the man took a glass, Clarette suddenly turned to take one herself. As she glanced at him, her eyes meeting his, Thomas thought he would have a heart attack, and just barely kept his tray from rattling. Did she pause? Did she recognise him? When she looked away again, speaking to the woman that had addressed her, he was relieved -- and, oddly, disappointed. _Is it that I'm masked?_ he wondered as he walked away, struggling to keep nonchalant. Was it that he was very changed? That she would never expect to find him where he was, doing what he was doing? That those upstairs tended not to see those from below?

No, not that last; that wasn't who Clarette was. Clarette had been born into the upper middle-class, just as he had been -- she wasn't the type to forget that, or snub anyone because they were of lower standing. He had no doubt that, were Sybil still alive, she and Clarette would be fast friends, no question. 

Well, whatever the case, he needed to avoid her. After the day he'd had, his nerves were shot -- and they hadn't exactly recovered from the fallout of The Incident as it was! He was _not_ up to playing catch-up with his past, no matter how much he wondered about her -- or her brother. He didn't want to hear how awful Declan's life had been after they'd been caught. He'd convinced himself that Declan was happy and healthy -- he didn't want to learn otherwise, that Declan had been thrown out as well, or had ... well, gone the way of Edward Courtenay. The way Thomas had almost gone back then, and almost gone recently, except that he'd been too afraid of death both times.

And another part of him, a part he hadn't yet managed to exorcise, didn't want to hear that Declan had found the sort of happiness that Thomas had failed, time and again, to achieve.

It was about time he relieved Bates for a break -- though he couldn't smoke at the front door, it would serve as a much-needed break for Thomas, as well, the heat and crowd getting oppressive.

"Are you all right?" Bates asked, brow furrowing as Thomas came out beside him. "You look like you've seen a ghost ...."

"You could say that," Thomas replied ruefully, ignoring that hateful little part of himself that hadn't wanted to reply at all, the part that was wary of letting anyone know too much. Then it occurred to him that he didn't have to handle this new problem alone, that letting someone know what he was going through might actually _help_ .... 

He drew the cold air deep into his lungs, then braced himself as he revealed, "There's someone from my distant past here tonight, and I'm trying to avoid her."

The valet's eyebrows quirked. "Any particular reason? Do you think she'll cause trouble?"

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated a moment. "I honestly don't know. I mean, she _knows_ what I am, but she was also okay with it -- at least back then. She was a sweet soul, but ... well, if she feels I hurt her brother ...."

" _He_ was why you were disowned," Bates realised.

"Yes, and I don't really know what happened to him after, much less if she might hold a grudge over it. And it's not just that -- she and I were _betrothed_ , after all. Even if nothing was said as to the circumstances of _why_ I left, I still left and never came back. I imagine the gossip mill was not kind to her."

"Do you want to take up door duty for the night? I think I can handle carrying a tray if I stay well enough away from the dancers."

Thomas was tempted. "No, better not," he decided. "His Lordship will notice if I'm gone too long, and since Carson can't walk the floor himself, they'll expect me to keep an eye on things." And, well, if Bates dropped a tray, Thomas would be blamed for letting him carry in the first place. "Thank you for offering, though."

"Tell you what. After my break, I'll take Anna's place inside for a few minutes," Bates offered. "She can come out here, and you can tell her what's up. Then she'll come get me, so I can relieve you here. When you go back inside, you can point the woman out to Anna, who can then keep an eye out for you and intervene if necessary. And if you need to, you come out here and trade places with me again."

Thomas felt the tightness that was growing behind his eyes ease -- if only a little. "That just might work!"

~ * * * ~  
And it did work, for an hour or so. Thomas managed to keep out of sight most of the time, between his own efforts and Anna frequently managing to come between them. It was like some sort of bizarre dance -- and thankfully, Thomas was no stranger to such things.

He also managed to duck behind Alfred sometimes -- which allowed him to catch the man's tray at one point, when the oaf tripped over his own massive feet.

"S-sorry, Mr Barrow!"

Thomas managed to bite back his natural inclination to be sharp, instead quietly telling the man, "No harm done. Just ... be more careful." He topped it off by patting the man on the back. Alfred gawked at him, and Thomas found himself telling the young man, "Close your mouth before you let flies in!" before he could help himself. Snapping his jaw shut, Alfred hurriedly went on his way.

A bit later, a tipsy guest started sexually harassing one of the pseudo-"hall boys". Thomas wasn't sure whether the man knew the woman was actually a woman or not, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was that one of the rich bastards was mistreating one of his coworkers. At that moment, Thomas felt very strongly that it was _his_ house, and this woman was under _his_ protection. He wouldn't stand for it.

"Is there something I can help you with, sir?" Thomas asked, stepping between the pair and gripping the man's arm hard, forcing the fancy git to release the girl; Missy hurried off.

" _Hey!_ How _dare_ you?!" the man protested.

Thomas was originally just going to point out that the "hall boy" had work to do, but something in him snapped. "I _dare_ when you're accosting someone in _my domain_. You see that tall footman over there?" he added, gesturing his head towards Alfred. Thomas himself was already a good four inches taller than the troublesome guest, and Alfred was a few inches taller than Thomas .... "If you can't keep your hands to yourself, I promise you that, between that footman and myself, we _will_ remove you from this house -- and that we are under Lord Grantham's command, no less, to do so. But by all means, do go against my warning -- I will enjoy _every moment_ of escorting you out the door." Thomas kept his face placid as he spoke, and his voice quiet, but also managed, he felt, a tone of menace; indeed, the look on the man's face suggested Thomas was successful with his threat.

The night wore on like that, Thomas fixing little problems all over the place while still managing to avoid Clarette (and Jimmy). Eventually, though, the party started to die down, and the crowd's numbers started to dwindle as people began calling it a night. During a pause between songs, Thomas saw her go over to Jimmy. Thomas quickly looked away; seeing the two of them together at once was too hard to bear.

The opening notes of a rare and long-forgotten song proved even harder.

At first, Thomas couldn't breathe. He was terrified and hopeful, in equal, heart-pounding measure. He didn't want to lose his job and home; pile old scandals upon the recent turmoil he'd created, and it might prove enough to be the last straw for Lord Grantham. But on the other hand, maybe Clarette had no desire to ruin him, despite the grief he'd brought her. The very old song she'd chosen brought back memories of happy days unlike any he had known since being banished; surely she wouldn't have requested it if Clarette carried any malice towards him? Unless ... she still didn't know he was actually _there_ , and just wanted to hear the song?

As if sensing his doubt, she said a word.

It was his name -- not Thomas, but the name _she_ had given him, when they were children. A name certainly no one else in the room would bear. _Tumulus._ Another word for Barrow. (It had amused her because it sounded so much like his _given_ name, while carrying the meaning of his surname.)

That word startled a gasp out of him, making the empty glasses on his tray rattle. (At least he was breathing again!) Anna was suddenly there, taking the tray from him and offering him an apologetic, worried look. He granted her a wan smile and a nod, trying to at least reassure _her_ that everything was all right, even if he couldn't do the same for himself. Swallowing hard, he turned to face the music -- and all that came with it.

Mischief made Clarette's eyes sparkle and one corner of her lip curl into a smile. She curtsied to him; he bowed in return, knowing that doing so meant he was agreeing to dance with her. He'd never been able to refuse her anything.

Wordlessly, they slipped into strange steps that no one else but her absent brother, Declan, would know -- well, and maybe Clarette's companion (friend? Lover? Fiancée?), who now sat playing the piano. (Thomas hoped Jimmy was taking a break, absent of the room entirely.) The dance was extremely complicated and intricate, a hodge-podge of medieval folk dances, waltzes, and a few made-up moves -- anything that had struck their (well, mostly Clarette's) fancy when they were children. There were claps and hand-clasps and hand gestures, lifts and jumps and twirls. Thomas thought they must look utterly ridiculous to the lords and ladies and nouveau riche in the room, but he didn't care; the motions were soothing, like an old blanket, in a world where he'd know few comforts. For a few precious minutes, they were back on the sunny lawn of their carefree childhood, the losses of his adolescence and adulthood having never happened. Tears began to prick at his eyes, while joy moved his lips into the largely unfamiliar shape of a smile -- an echo of hers. She began to laugh, and as her mirror, so did he. They were breathless by the song's end, wobbling a little as he bowed and she curtsied.

He realised then that the room was full of applause -- some of it confused and polite, but just as much being enthusiastic (probably from the more drunken members of their audience). The impromptu pianist came out onto the floor. Clarette took her companion's hand in one of hers, and slipped her other hand into that of the under-butler, then bowed, Thomas and the pianist following suit.

When Thomas stood again, he found Lord Grantham, Mr Crawley, Branson, and Carson staring at him. Grantham looked uncomfortable, Mr Crawley and Branson gleeful (not in a malicious way, Thomas didn't think), and Carson looked _livid_.

 _I'm not just unemployed, I'm a_ dead man!

Well, it certainly wouldn't help his odds of survival if Carson himself caused a scene, which the man surely would in a moment -- either through his outrage or by collapsing from his backache (or a heart attack).

"Mr Carson, what are you doing out of bed?" Thomas asked as he hurried over.

"I was asking the same thing," Lord Grantham revealed, glowering at the butler.

"I feel much better!" Carson insisted.

"After painkillers, yes?" Thomas asked, taking one of Carson's arms and trying to steer the man back to the bedroom. "They numb the pain, but you're still hurt and need to rest! Now come on -- you can yell at me in your room -- _behind closed doors ...._ "

Carson, immovable at first, seemed about ready to protest until Thomas suggested he could yell in private. Carson seemed to realise the sense of that, and began to move, clearly still in considerable pain. With Branson's help, Thomas got the man back to bed, Crawley and Grantham following.

~ * * * ~  
_John and Mrs Hughes aren't going to believe this_ ... Anna had thought as she'd watched Thomas dance with the Clarette woman. And smile. And _laugh_.

She'd felt awful about the situation at first (before the smile). She'd gotten tied up for a few moments by an especially chummy -- and drunken -- guest, and by the time she'd extricated herself, it was just in time to spot Clarette staring right at Thomas. Anna had tried to intercept, or at least warn him, but the best she'd been able to actually do was rescue the tray Thomas had been holding when Clarette spoke. Anna wasn't sure what significance the word "Tumulus" held for Thomas, but clearly it was significant.

And then Thomas had started dancing with the woman, and changed from a sad, scared caterpillar into a grinning butterfly within just a few turns. Anna didn't think she'd ever seen him smile -- _truly_ smile, without malice or rue -- before. Not _ever_. 

And suddenly, as much as she'd been sorry she hadn't managed to help him for the _entire_ ball, _now_ she was sorry she'd helped at _all_. If she hadn't, he wouldn't have had to wait so long to smile. Worse, in helping, she might have prevented him from _ever_ being reunited with his friend, if not for the drunkenly interference. It was beyond strange, the thought of Thomas having had a life where he'd had friends and been _happy_. Clearly, meeting this ghost from his past wasn't as dire of a scenario as he'd convinced himself it could be.

Or so she'd thought, until she'd realised that Lord Grantham and Carson were among the witnesses to it all. She didn't see the harm in the dance herself, but Carson looked mortified, probably feeling Thomas had crossed that imaginary fence he saw between those who lived upstairs and those who lived down below. (As if that fence hadn't been pretty well damaged by Tom Branson marrying Lady Sybil. For that matter, as if Thomas would marry Clarette! Really, what was the problem?) Lord Grantham, on the other hand, looked bewildered, like he couldn't decide whether to be cross or amused. Facing the two men who held his fate in their hands, poor Thomas wore a brave face that didn't quite hide his terror. She felt for the under-butler -- why must his happiness be stripped away so soon? Why must it be taken away at _all_?

Maybe if she explained that Clarette had instigated the whole thing ....

Debating whether she could safely leave her task (they were already down a man without Thomas on the floor), she started to head towards Carson's temporary room -- then noted that Clarette and her pianist were headed in that direction already. Smothering an approving grin, Anna resigned herself to staying on the floor, wishing she were a fly on the wall for the conversation with Carson.

~ * * * ~  
"Now, what were you doing out of bed?" Lord Grantham asked the butler, once they'd gotten the man back in bed (even if they hadn't convinced him to change into his pyjamas again, him insisting he needed to be dressed in case there was a crisis).

"And where's the maid who was supposed to be gua--er, keeping an eye on you?" Thomas added.

"I told her to get back to _work_ ," Carson growled at Thomas. (The under-butler kicked himself for not making sure whoever was on guard duty was someone who wouldn't be cowed by Carson -- someone like Mrs Hughes ....) The butler turned an apologetic look towards Grantham. "Surely Your Lordship understands that I couldn't possibly rest while wondering how things were going?"

"I appreciate the pride you take in your work, Carson, but I would hope _you_ would have more faith in the employees you yourself trained," His Lordship replied gently. "Thanks to your detailed instruction, Barrow and the rest of the staff have done a splendid job -- I would have alerted you myself if I felt otherwise."

Carson seemed mollified for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed.

_Here it comes ...._

"What about the ... _dancing_ I walked in on?" Carson asked, a sour look on his face, as of dancing were a curse word.

"If that was some sort of offense, then I offer my sincerest apologies," came Clarette's voice from the door. Thomas turned and found her coming in with her male companion beside her. She addressed Lord Grantham. "Thomas and I were childhood friends, and I was overjoyed to see him again. It's funny; it's been eight years since I married into a higher class, but I can't bring myself to treat the people I grew up with any differently." Knowing her as he did, Thomas wondered if the note of sarcasm in her voice was as detectable to everyone else in the room as it was to him.

Like twins, Mr Crawley and Branson muttered at the same time, "I know what _that's_ like." They looked at each other and snickered.

Clarette grinned at them before turning back to His Lordship. "I'm afraid It simply didn't occur to me that I would be putting him in an awkward position. I imagine he felt he could not refuse the wish of a guest without causing a scene."

Truth be told, Thomas didn't think he could have refused her in any case.

"I'm afraid the fault is actually mine," the man beside her weighed in. "When my wife told me of her plan to surprise her old friend, I encouraged her, not considering the usual distance preferred between servants and those upstairs. I guess my own sense of protocol isn't terribly well developed yet."

"Think no more of it, Mr. Wainright," His Lordship replied, waving a hand in dismissal.

Thomas had heard of Lucas Wainright, a musician of growing renown; he was nouveau riche, which explained why he and his wife wouldn't think it so unusual to dance with a servant, much less acknowledge one.

"I dare say the three of you did a fine job entertaining everyone," His Lordship continued, "and one hopes for good entertainment at a party. I'm pleased you were willing to display your talent for us -- I just hope you didn't feel it was _expected_ of you when you were invited!" His Lordship ignored the flustered harrumph of his butler. 

Thomas stifled what he was sure would have been hysterical laughter.

"Oh, no, that was purely a lark on my part," Mr Wainright assured His Lordship. 

"Good, good! In any case," Lord Grantham turned his attention to Clarette, "without the tray in his hand, most of the guests probably didn't even know you were dancing with my under-butler -- particularly as you _seem_ to have practised, even though I know you couldn't have!"

"Oh, but we _did_ \-- rather endlessly when we were children, to the point where my poor Tumulus probably _wishes_ he could forget," Clarette explained, winking at Thomas.

Poor Carson looked scandalised at the familiarity.

"There you are, Grantham!" said a new voice from the door. Thomas recognized the slightly tipsy man as the Duke of Eirglen."Someone said you'd gone down this hall! Wanted to bid you goodnight and thank you for the smashing evening! Oh, am I interrupting?"

"It's fine. I was just about to step out," Grantham assured the man.

The duke's gaze fell on Thomas. "Oh! You're the fellow who was dancing with Mrs Wainright! And there's Mrs Wainright! And _Lucas_ Wainright!" he added excitedly. "You know, everyone's been hoping for an encore -- I'd stay up a bit longer for that!"

"Well, then! Shall we?" Clarette asked Thomas, offering her arm.

Thomas looked to the butler. "Mr Carson?"

Carson scowled a moment, then softened, sighing. "Don't keep the guests wanting or waiting, Mr Barrow."

Smiling bashfully, Thomas took Clarette's arm.

~ * * * ~  
"I'm still angry with you, you know," Clarette informed him as they danced some steps that put them close enough together. 

The way they were positioned, he couldn't see her face, but she indeed sounded perturbed. His stomach sank at that, but he managed to keep his disappointment from affecting his dancing.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I can only imagine how people must have treated you, your betrothed running off like that ...."

"What? Oh, no, that's not it!" She could see her now, and she just looked surprised. "Thomas, no one outside of your immediate family and mine even _knew_ about that!"

Thomas almost stumbled. "They didn't?" It was a few moments before she was close enough to reply.

"Of course not!" she hissed when they were close enough again. "We were only betrothed, not officially _engaged_! Why would they have announced it before an actual proposal was made?"

"And _you_ never--"

The sudden distance between them as their steps pulled them apart cut him off. There were so many steps in between, Thomas was afraid he'd forget the question before he had the chance to finish it.

"What, told my friends?" she said when they were close, apparently understanding what he'd meant to ask. "Thomas, you know I _knew_. Why would I have tied myself down to you? Didn't you think I wanted to marry someone who would love me back as _more_ than a sister?"

Oh. "Fair point," he managed weakly. "So ... what _are_ you mad at me about?"

He had to wait an agonisingly long moment before they were close enough again for her reply.

"Because you didn't _write_ , silly! Declan and I were worried sick for ages. Eventually, we had to assume you were dead. So why _didn't_ you write?"

This time, Thomas was thankful for the gap the dance offered him. He still wasn't really ready to answer when he cap closed, but he tried.

"Part of it was that I was ashamed. Ashamed of getting caught, of getting Declan in trouble, and of ... what being thrown out lead me to do to survive."

She paled. "Getting caught was as much Declan's doing as it was yours, but really, I still don't believe you did anything wrong. At any rate, I think I can hazard a guess as to what it led you to do, but I won't force that from you. Just know that I'll listen if you ever decide you want to talk about it -- and that I don't see it as anything to be ashamed of."

"Thank you for that," he was finally able to tell her a few turns later; it wasn't just the dance that had stopped him, but a sudden lump in his throat. Thing was, he wasn't even sure if he was thanking her for not pressing him, or for being willing to listen.

"So what was the other part?" she wondered.

Again, he was grateful for the steps apart, wishing he could will the music to slow. "You'll hate me for it," he warned her.

"I know you won't believe me when I say that will never happen, so look at it this way: while I don't agree, from your own point of view, you feel you owe me. So that's how I'm collecting: Tell. Me. The. Other. Part."

He swallowed hard. "It was that I didn't think I could handle learning that you or Declan had suffered for what happened. In fact, I was sure at least one of you _had_ , but without confirmation, I could at least pretend you were both all right."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, isn't that a delicious irony? The only way we suffered was in that we didn't know where you were or how you were doing, all because _you_ were afraid _we_ were suffering!"

"And you're angry! I _told_ you that you would hate me! Things would have been so different for all of us if I hadn't been such a coward!"

"Hey! Your parents didn't make it any easier! I don't blame you for fearing the worst -- they didn't exactly give you reason to hope for the best! Whereas, while my parents weren't thrilled, per se, they didn't throw Declan out. Mostly, they were just _sad_ for him. No one else ever found out about what happened -- your parents just said you'd decided to go abroad -- so he didn't suffer _that_ way. In fact, your father seemed to think it was all your doing, so he kept Declan on as his apprentice out of guilt."

"Wow, that must have been ... _really_ awkward."

She laughed. "Oh, it was, believe me. Thankfully, not long after, one Mr Drosselmeier came to the shop, and your father convinced the man to take Declan on as _his_ apprentice."

Thomas gaped at her. Drosselmeier was a world-renowned clockmaker! Jealousy burned through him. He would never tell Clarette that this was also part of why he'd never written her or Declan: fear that Declan had found success when Thomas had mostly found misery. While Thomas was owning up to the fact that he'd brought a lot of that misery down on himself unnecessarily, he had never stopped wondering what his life would have been like if he had stayed apprenticed to his father; this new revelation wasn't going to help with that.

Even so, curiosity pressed him to ask, "How _is_ Declan?"

She seemed reluctant to answer the question; Thomas suspected she had guessed his thoughts. "He's well. Has his own shop, near Soho. He's ... got someone _working_ with him."

The strange way she said it, and looked at Thomas, told him that that someone was more than a coworker. Having his own shop would afford Declan that freedom -- he had no boss to answer to. When the shop was closed for the night, he could do what he wanted. Jealousy burned hotter, and he chided himself for it. He should be _relieved_ that Declan was happy and healthy. Would he _ever_ stop being so petty and selfish?

"I can't wait to tell him you're alive!" she said, beaming.

He couldn't believe how happy she looked, that someone was well and truly glad to see him. Would she still feel that way if she knew the things he'd done since they'd parted? Not just the prostitution, but the way he'd behaved, especially towards William and Bates? The thought of her disapproval made him ill.

The thought of Declan's disapproval made him even more so. Not to mention he didn't want Declan to feel what Thomas himself would have felt if it had turned out Declan had ended up on the streets. Surely it would be better for Declan if he still thought Thomas dead? Surely the grief had softened, and he was happy now? Thomas didn't want to ruin that.

"Don't tell him," Thomas hurriedly insisted. "Please."

"But--"

" _Please_ , Clarette. Just ... give me time!"

"All right," she agreed, a mix of pity and disappointment in her eyes. The song ended then, just as the clock chimed midnight. "I think I'd best get to sleep. Lucas looks tired." She curtseyed.

"Good night, then," Thomas replied, bowing, feeling like Cinderella when all the magic had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame the creation of Clarette on the song "A Thousand Years", by Christina Perri. Listening to it, I suddenly had a strange daydream (which became recurring) where this noblewoman, upon arriving at Downtown with her husband, is astonished to see Thomas -- her long-lost brother or playmate, whom she'd been told was dead & vice versa. She starts to sing the song to him, and he sings back, and they dance this medievilish dance, much to the astonishment of everyone watching. (She then reveals that he's a long-lost prince or her beloved servant, and she's taking him back now, kthnxbai.)
> 
> Now, while writing the fic you're reading now, I was trying to think up more disasters for poor Thomas, and suddenly the girl of the daydream became the same girl who was Declan's sister, and just kind of ... took over. XD And suddenly the story that I thought was almost over became a lot less so. Oddly enough, Bradley introduced himself into the mix _after_ Clarette did, which only prolonged the process even more. XD And that;s how we got this weird chaptered fic-within-a-chaptered-fic-within-a-series thing goin' on ....
> 
> Oh, the Duke of Eirglen is made up, and Lucas Wainright is an homage to Rufus Wainwright. Clarette is a name I first discovered in the yaoi webcomic _Teahouse_ (although they spell it Claret), and Baker is a nod to Tom Baker, the Doctor I was introduced to Doctor Who through. And I got the name Declan from Kyle XY. The name Bradley just popped into my head.


	7. Like A Boss, Part 4: Aftermath and Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, and a month later. Will Clarette still be in his life? Will certain people start treating him with respect, after all he's accomplished?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Thomas Barrow, Jimmy Kent, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, John Bates, Anna Bates, Alfred Nugent, Robert Crawley / Earl of Grantham, Daisy Mason, Beryl Patmore, Ivy Stuart, Edward Courtenay, Richard Clarkson, Tom Branson, Sybil Branson, Sybil Crawley, Sybbie, Edith Crawley, Mary Crawley, Sarah O'Brien, Cora Crawley / Lady Grantham, Matthew Crawley, Isobel Crawley, Violet Crawley / the Dowager Countess, Mr Molesley, © Julian Fellowes / ITV / PBS. This is just fanfiction, not an official story for the series, and no profit is being made by the author.

"And then he danced with her _again_ ," Missy was telling everyone at the table next morning.

"Enough already, Missy, nobody wants to hear about it!" Jimmy snapped.

"Speak for yourself, Jimmy!" Daisy chided him as she laid down a dish.

"Well, speaking for _me, I'd_ rather not hear about it," Thomas complained wearily.

He was so exhausted, he couldn't even enjoy the sight of everyone standing to attention for him. He should have enjoyed sitting in Carson's chair, but it just made him uneasy, made him feel different in a brand-new way. There was a certain distance between the boss and those under him, making the position a lonely one, besides one heavy with responsibility. Suddenly, impossibly, Thomas felt pity for the man. 

~ * * * ~  
After breakfast, O'Brien headed outside, as she usually did, for a smoke -- and for the first time in months, Thomas willfully went out to join her.

"I have a favour to ask you," he told her. 

She paused mid-inhalation and coughed.

"It's not for me; it's for Bradley."

She eyed him a long moment before telling him, "Go on, then. What is it?"

As he lit up, he told her about the situation with Bradley's sister, and the problem with his father. "So I was thinking, what if the school had some sort of village-sponsored eye exam, and the _school_ handed out glasses to kids who needed 'em? Bradley's father couldn't say nothing against it, then, and we wouldn't have to worry about him taking it out on Bradley." And any children with similar problems could likewise continue their education even if their parents were too poor to buy glasses.

O'Brien's look had edged a little away from wariness to curiosity. "So what's this to do with me?"

"Well, I think Lady Grantham would be the one to approach about having a fundraiser event to raise money for the exams and any glasses the children need, don't you? You can even take credit for the idea if you want -- or blame me if she's unreceptive, and say I badgered you into asking."

Her eyes narrowed as a sly smile crept across her features. She chuckled. "All right, then. We'll see what happens."

He nodded, tossing his cigarette on the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. He started to head back inside, but stopped, and said over his shoulder, "It might help to suggest that the fundraiser could be held in Lady Sybil's honor."

~ * * * ~  
"Mr Barrow, your dance partner from last night asked me to give me this to give to you when I saw you," Jimmy informed Thomas as he came in through the door, holding out an envelope to him, arm fully outstretched. Jimmy's face was blank, and he wouldn't even look at Thomas.

Thomas tried to ignore the sting he felt when Jimmy quickly pulled his hand back and wiped it against his jacket after Thomas took the missive. Jimmy quickly headed up the main stair, to bring more luggage down. While some of the guests were staying the full weekend, many were already on their way home; apparently Clarette had been one of them. Thomas hurriedly ducked into the dining room, so no one could see his hands shake as he opened the envelope.

_My dear Tumulus,_

_I'm sorry we had to leave without saying goodbye -- I knew you would be tired and busy, and we promised our six-year-old, Jenny, we would be home today. But don't think you've gotten off easy! I know where you live now! I _will_ return, and you can expect a deluge of letters in the meantime!_

_Your sister-in-heart always, whether you like it or not,_

_Clarette Wainright née Baker_

Joy bubbled out of Thomas as a giggle, threatening to spill from his eyes as well. He thought for sure that she was angry with him after what he'd said the night before, that he'd lost her as quickly as he'd found her. He kept her letter in his jacket, and any time during the day (or the days following) he started to feel tired or down, he would pull the letter out for another reread.

And when Daisy asked him if he had a new sweetheart, he was even able to brush aside Jimmy's snort of derision as he replied, smiling softly, "No, just an old friend."

~ * * * ~  
A month later, the staff were scrambling about to arrange seats in the saloon for a fundraiser performance -- a concert showcasing none other than Lucas Wainright, and including the strange, special dance performed by his wife and one Thomas Barrow.

Clarette's letters arrived one after another, at the rate of about three per week, whether Thomas managed to get a reply out or not. Not wanting to share too detailed of an account of his missing years, even via a secret code from their childhood, Thomas had told her about the fundraiser, both to pad out his own letters and impress upon her how busy he was, lest she think he didn't really want to hear from her -- he did. Her letters were the highlight of any day they arrived on. But that was how he ended up seeing her in person again so soon; he wasn't sure he was ready.

"Thank you for doing all this, Mr Barrow," Bradley said earnestly when they were placing chairs next to each other. "A-and thank your friends, as well." Thomas suspected part of this thank-you was for replacing the snuff box, which Bates had actually done -- he needed to remember to pass the thanks along.

"No need for that, Bradley. I know what it's like to care about a sister."

Clarette turned and smiled with a wink at him from where she stood beside Lady Grantham, at the front of the rows.

"Wait, I thought this was all my _aunt's_ idea?" Alfred pointed out, a little disgruntled but not unfriendly. 

"Well, maybe the fundraiser was, but I told Mr Barrow about my sister needing glasses, not Miss O'Brien!" Bradley insisted.

"Now, now, it was O'Brien what pitched the idea to Her Ladyship," Thomas hedged, wishing Bradley would shut it. If O'Brien still got at least some of the credit, it would hopefully lessen tensions between them ....

"Even so, my husband and I wouldn't know a Miss O'Brien from Eve. Thomas wrote us about the fundraiser," Clarette revealed, coming over and kissing Thomas on the cheek. "Hello, darling!"

"Hello, love," he returned, kiss included, sighing inwardly. He _tried_ to share the credit ....

"Jenny, come here!" Clarette called out, looking around.

Jenny popped out from behind the chair, making everyone nearby nearly have a heart attack, if the ways they clutched at their chests were any indication. Thomas began laughing so hard, he could barely breathe.

Blinking away tears of mirth, he finally got a good look at the child. "My God, she's the spitting image of you at that age," he marveled.

"Come now, Barrow, be fair -- she has my eyes," Wainright teasingly complained from behind the piano.

The man was right about the colour; Jenny's eyes were her father's crystalline blue. But the mischief in them ... that was her mother, through and through.

"Say, Jenny, do you know how to do Maeve's March?"

"'Course I do!" She looked at him like he was insane for even asking.

He laughed again. "Well, your father has to tune the piano, and I think it would help him if we danced while he played. Would you do me the honour?" he asked, holding out his hand.

"I would be delighted, Mr ... Barrow, was it?" she asked in turn, taking his hand.

"You may call me Uncle Tumulus," he told her, leading her to the stage.

They went through a full fun of the dance, and while the height difference made some parts a little tricky, Jenny, unsurprisingly, proved just as familiar with the steps as he was.

"Thanks ever so much for the dance, Uncle," Jenny told him as she curtsied.

"The pleasure was all mine," he told her in all honesty. For a few minutes, he'd been eight years old again; even now that the dance was over, he felt younger than he had in years.

As he turned to go back to work, he noted a good number of his coworkers (and the Crawley family) gawking at him. "Oy, you lot, get back to work!" he commanded the servants good-naturedly, chuckling.

~ * * * ~  
"Did you know about Barrow's involvement in all this?" Robert asked Cora in hushed tones as the under-butler danced. The change in the usually dour man was remarkable!

"No!" Cora replied, looking delightedly mystified. "Isobel, your mother, and I had put feelers out for who wanted to get involved, and what they would want to see at such an event, but I hadn't known Thomas had contacted the Wainrights personally, or that _he_ was why they had volunteered. And when Miss O'Brien made the suggestion of having a fundraiser in the first place, she'd made it sound like she'd talked to Bradley herself!"

"I'm finding it hard to believe that Thomas wouldn't take the credit when it was due," Carson remarked, staring at the under-butler like the man had grown a second head. "But no wonder he'd been so eager to take this project on, if it was his brainchild in the first place!"

Cora raised a brow. "You don't think O'Brien came up with the fundraiser idea, at least?"

"No," Robert and Carson said at the same time.

Robert may have puffed up a little in his pleasure at Carson's backing of Thomas, remembering how almost no one had seemed to want Thomas to stay after the Incident, but Robert had gone with his gut. _Not_ all _of my investments are without a pay-off_.

A little later, Thomas was bouncing Sybbie in his arms; watching that, Robert felt confident that, when he and Carson were ready to step back, the future of Downton would be in good hands.

~FINIS~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope the Jimmy bit wasn't too much of a disappointment -- he'll be much nicer in the next fic, since it's post Christmas special! Also, I am going to be whumping the bejeezus out of Thomas in it. Mwahahah! >:D


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